


Recollection

by bourbonrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-07-24 13:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16176161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonrain/pseuds/bourbonrain
Summary: Draco’s reappearance in her life forces Hermione to reconcile what happened between them twelve years ago, when she was imprisoned at Malfoy Manor. Rating is for graphic violence, explicit sexual content, and dubious consent. Short chapters and updates every 1-2 weeks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: I'm trying something I haven't done before, which is short-format, first-person writing, with more frequent updates. I'm not sure that every chapter will be like this, but it feels right for now.  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

This is not an easy event for me to form into words. It's a secret I've kept for myself, and perhaps for him, for over a decade. But here it is:

               I lost my virginity to Draco Malfoy.

Now that I've written it down, the phrase feels paltry and anti-climactic. After all, no one's first time is meant to be perfect. From what I hear, it's usually wracked by nerves and awkwardness and unsure angling of pelvises.

And after all, I'm now thirty years old and know what it's like to be loved and to be made love to. I've had boyfriends, proper ones that treated me nicely and introduced me to their parents and never called me a mudblood. They should matter more than him, and be enough to be written over him.

So, I've asked myself why does Malfoy matter at all? By all the above logic, he shouldn't.

I've done a good job at dismissing the memory, hiding it well in the recesses of my mind. Still, every once in a while, I'll catch a glimmer of what it was like to be so close to him, the scent of his shampoo and his sweat, the press of lips against flesh – and it will weigh on me. Not too heavily. I mean, I certainly don't think about it every day, or even every month. I know it's there though, like a bit of varnish left on silver or a loose thread in a shawl.

Perhaps, it's simply because he was my first.

I dislike this theory.

Even back then, I thought that Loss of Innocence was an antiquated, sexist concept which placed undue importance on the purity of female flesh. In the moments right before, as lust blurred the enmity between us, I told myself I was above caring about something as old-fashioned as virginity. I want to believe I was right.

I lied about it afterwards. To this day, Ron thinks he was my first. I thought I was being kind by fibbing at the time, but now, after the truth has stewed inside me all these years, I think I just didn't want to admit what really happened after I was left behind at the Manor.

I haven't let myself think deeply about it for nearly twelve years.

Then several months ago, a memo was distributed at work about a mid-morning meeting in the conference room. I walk in and there, standing beside my boss, Alfred Krumperdinkle, was Draco Malfoy getting introduced as the newest member of the Department of Mysteries. Apparently, he's some kind of expert on machine-magic interfacing and a thrilling addition to our team.

I watched him as he gave the room a polite nod, as his eyes glided over me like I was just anyone else.

I kept my cool of course. I am a professional after all.

Then, I quietly excused myself and vomited violently in the nearest toilet.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 1**

Omg, I've never posted anything so short, but it feels weird to not end the chapter here. Will try to touch up and post the next one before the end of the week! Because this is such a new format for me, I'd love to know what you think.

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

I rinsed out my mouth in the bathroom sink. In the mirror, my reflection was pristine except for my eyes, which were slightly red from the involuntary tears that come with heaving out one's stomach contents.

It wasn't like me to be sick in this way, to react so physically to any emotion - not to mention ones I couldn't quite discern. In the moment, I told myself it was just the shock of seeing him again. And anyway, I wasn't about to waste away the morning hiding in the loo. Keep calm and carry on and all that.

When I returned to the meeting, Malfoy was addressing the room. I took a seat in the back and tried to pay attention as he clicked through presentation slides depicting complex graphs and arithmancy equations. I looked around at my colleagues as they nodded along and scribbled notes.

My own notepad was blank, so I wrote the date and "D. Malfoy" at the top of the page. It's typical for newcomers to give a short lecture on their fields of expertise and whatever project proposal they submitted to earn a coveted Unspeakable position. During these talks, my mind usually spins with ideas for collaborations and the margins of my notes are covered in questions I have for the speaker. On this day, I tried to pay attention, to force my brain to understand and analyze the words coming out of his mouth. Instead, all I could focus on was how he looked compared to the boy I remember from school.

I had seen his photograph in the papers of course, tabloids mostly but also in the occasional business journal. I already knew about his movie star jaw line and broad shoulders and swoon-worthy lips (Witch's Weekly's words – not mine).

Seeing him in person, however, was different. Underneath this version of him, which had the requisite dusting of five o'clock shadow and a frame that filled his suit so well, I could still see evidence of the pointy-chinned teenager I once knew like the back of my own hand. I recognized the way he squared his shoulders when nervous, the slight twist of his mouth when thinking, and the habitual absent-minded graze of his index finger over the scar on the back of his neck. After all, I had nothing better to do during those weeks in the Malfoy family dungeons than to observe my prison guards.

I looked down at my notepad, which was woefully blank except for the header I had penned earlier. For probably the first time in my life, I had sat through a lecture and not heard a single word. I closed the notebook and pretended to listen attentively to the question posed by Moira Lansing, whose work spanned the relationship between inter-dimensional prophecies and magical clocks.

It bothered me that my fellow Unspeakables, whom I admired and got on with, appeared so interested in something Malfoy would have to say. I wanted my colleagues to scorn him, to make him feel unwelcome in our intellectual utopia. This place, where reason and curiosity ruled, was my solace from the unfair, illogical outside world. It wasn't right that he should encroach.

Afterwards, as we shuffled out of the conference room, my heart quickened as I made my way past him. He was engrossed in conversation with Alfred, but as I walked by, he looked up and gave me a small nod.

I gave him a half smile and looked away. I don't know what I expected to feel, but it wasn't this. I don't know how to explain it really, except to say I felt like something in me was broken, had been broken for a long time, and I was just now finding the shards.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hello lovelies! I think the short format drives me to update rather quickly, but the plot is really just inching along. I'll probably be playing around with chapter lengths over the next several updates. Please let me know what you think, one way or another. Thank you!

xoxo

bourbonrain


	3. Chapter 3

The ministry grants Unspeakables customized work spaces for our needs. For example, Cornelius Chang, who specializes in interplanetary portkeys, works in a spherical room that provides a panoramic three-dimensional view from any vantage point in our Universe. Ariel Hollingsworth studies atomic properties that precipitate divination. Suitably, her nook of the department contains a collection of magical orbs that Trelawney would be quite envious of, and a massive particle accelerator. As for me, my work deals with the evolution of magic since the advent of life. Indeed, there's evidence that magic has permeated living organisms since the purported Big Bang. I use genetics, arithmancy, and muggle machine learning concepts to study the magic of different species, both alive and extinct, on a biological level.

My office contains a large lab bench, a discreet portal that can take me to anywhere on earth, and most relevantly, several powerful muggle computers for data analysis. I am one of few Unspeakables that's well-versed in current muggle technology, which is likely why Alfred suggested that Malfoy meet with me.

I put if off for as long as I could. My excuses were reasonable, at least at first. I really did have to go to Zambia to collect pollen from a rare magical flower that blooms only once every three years. Then, I got a bit side-tracked with observing magical signatures of hippogriffs during mating season. I suppose I was hoping that over time, Malfoy would forget that we were meant to meet at all. I saw him during departmental meetings of course, but I took to sitting in the back in order to slip away easily afterwards. One time, I noticed he was following me to my office, so I made an impromptu decision to portal to an Egyptian desert. Lots of magical creatures there, I reasoned to myself. I got quite sunburned that day.

Eventually, maybe about six weeks after he joined, he caught me coming out of my office. He had a file folder tucked under his arm, and I could see "Granger" scrawled on the tab. His handwriting was exactly as I remembered from Hogwarts, neat and sharp, each letter perfectly slanted at a constant angle.

"Hermione," he said. "Do you have a minute to talk?"

I opened my mouth to make another excuse but the way he was looking at me, I knew he was fully aware that I'd been purposely dodging him.

"Sure," I answered pleasantly. "Come on in."

And then it was just me and him, alone, for the first time since we were eighteen. For a moment, I was back in that dank cell. There was the smell of my own filth and blood, the blast of icy water they'd wake me up with every morning, and the ugly screech of Bellatrix Lestrange's laughter as she found new ways to torture the worthless mudblood.

I felt myself start to get a bit lightheaded, so I went behind my desk and sat down.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Alfred wanted us to -"

"Oh, that's right!" I exclaimed, like I had simply forgotten.

"Right." There was an edge of coldness to his voice, as if he were holding back a sneer.

He was still standing uncomfortably by the door. I liked seeing him like this, off-kilter and unsure of himself.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked.

He came in closer and took the seat opposite mine.

I smiled at him like he was any other colleague. I wanted to be a reflection of him, cool and casual, the consummate professional.

By this time, I'd give some thought as to why I had reacted so strongly to seeing him again. I came to the conclusion that what I felt for him was unadulterated hatred. I had resented his easy acceptance back into favorable society, spurred on by the rapid success of his company, Neo Industries. "Neo" as in New, a blank slate so easily hung over the old Malfoy sins. Everyone ate up his charm. Even Ron once mentioned something about Malfoy turning out alright. Sure, he donated to a few charities, and sponsored a transitional school for muggleborns to better ease into wizarding society. But to me, he was still _him_.

You might think I hated Malfoy for all the torture his aunt inflicted on me while I was prisoner in his childhood home, or all the times he snubbed me with bigoted taunts, or the horrible things he did at Hogwarts as a Death Eater.

But no, most of all, my hatred was rooted in his persistent indifference towards me. After we parted ways, I... I don't know what I had expected. An owl maybe? At the very least some meaningful eye contact to acknowledge what had happened between us. All I got was a brief mention in an interview he'd given to the Daily Prophet after his trial. "I'd like to thank my schoolmates, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger for testifying on my behalf."

Until he walked back into my life, I had repressed the memory of reading that line and bursting into tears. I stayed in bed for days afterward, telling myself that I was crying over Tonks and Remus and Fred and all the others we had lost. It was mostly the truth.

There in my office, Malfoy cleared his throat and handed me the file.

"I wrote a proposal for you to look over. I tried to send it by departmental messaging, but it was returned unopened."

"Hmm," I said, accepting it. "Curious, that."

"Right," he said again.

"Give me some time to look it over."

"Of course. I understand you've been quite busy." His tone was clipped and accusatory, but I pretended not to notice.

"Yes, I've been rather swamped with work."

For a moment, we stared at each other. He was undoubtedly handsome and well-groomed. I'm sure his monthly tailoring budget cost more than my mortgage payments. Still, I could see small imperfections, like the subtle lines that framed his mouth from a lifetime of poncy smirks, and the lick of hair that had fallen loose from his otherwise perfectly gelled hair.

"Hermione -"

Something in his tone set off alarms in my head.

"No," I cut him off sharply. And just like that, my veneer of indifference was broken.

For a tenth of a second, I thought he looked distraught. I was wrong of course. He remained professional and polite, despite my outburst.

"Of course," he said gently. "I'm sorry for having accosted you like this. I'm sure you've got lots to do."

After he left, the conversation sank into my stomach and stretched to the tips of my ears. I briefly skimmed over his proposal – it conceptualized the use of muggle computer code to automate rote magic operations. Simple, but brilliant. Then again, his intellect was never the issue.

I still buzzed with the words we shared, replaying them over and over. I didn't want to just be some professional obligation. I wanted to stomp after him and make him give me more than papers with arithmancy calculations. I wanted him to push back and fight against all my rage and disappointment. I even wished that he hated me for what I did. At least that would be better than this limbo he had instilled in my life. I wanted to matter to him, like, really fucking matter.

Then, I wouldn't be the only fool.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 3**

**Author's Note:** Hello lovely readers! Thank you for the wonderful and helpful feedback you've given me. As you can see, I'm still settling in to the rhythm of this story. It's quite fun to write, but currently a jumble of partially written, partially conceptualized scenes. Lol not unlike how I tackle real life. Anyway, thanks for having patience with me while I figure it out.

xoxo,

bouronrain


	4. Chapter 4

Contrary to what the papers later wrote, it was more of a split second reflex rather than wisdom or bravery that drove my actions that day. When I turned and saw Bellatrix fling that cursed dagger at us, I let go of Dobby and deflected it wandlessly. For a moment, I felt triumphant, especially as the momentum of my raw power buried the blade into Fenrir Greyback's neck. How bloodthirsty I was in that adrenergic rush. Later, buckling under the duress of torture, I would wish desperately that the blade had slain me instead.

Pragmatically, my actions contributed to the ideal outcome - Harry beating Voldemort. I didn't know this at the time of course, but Harry, Ron, Griphook and Dobby would soon break into Bellatrix's vault to steal and destroy Helga Hufflepuff's cup. Better that the four of them survived despite my imprisonment, than if any one of their lives had been lost. Such was the precarious fate of the war.

Coupled with Griphook's goblininess, Dobby's magic was essential for the vault mission, and for my own sake, my lack of splinching that day. You see, house elves don't apparate the same way wizards do. Instead, they're able to create transient connections between points in space. Indeed, it is from studying this magic that my collaborators and I were able to create the portal in my office. Unlike apparition which can result in splinching, passage through these "kissing points" is bimodal in outcome - either all of you ends up there or stays here. Somehow, in the commotion, I was left behind, but at least all in one piece.

The violence that followed was a blur. My victory was short-lived obviously, for I soon realized my friends were gone and I was alone and wandless in a room full of Death Eaters. I felt several stunning spells hit me at once and I woke up some time later in darkness, my wrists and ankles shackled by coarse, heavy chains. In the dimness, I could smell the rust on them, or maybe it was the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

At some point, I saw the glint of platinum blonde hair and realized Malfoy was there, hovering over me, fiddling with the restraint over my left wrist.

"Draco," I begged. "I need you to help me."

My voice came out ragged and parched, small and pathetic.

He glanced at me with a sneer and continued to finagle with the chain. Some part of me thought, hoped, he was setting me free. Obviously, that turned out not to be the case.

"Draco, please," I pleaded again.

He stood then and looked at me with such chilly determination, I thought perhaps they had sent him in to finish me off.

"In your fucking dreams, mudblood."

He pointed his wand and blasted me with a close-range _Stupefy_ that slammed me harshly against the dank, rugged stone of the dungeon wall.

It wasn't until I came to again that I remembered that I was now a killer. I wept then, for my own loss of innocence, and because even though he was a villain in my story, Greyback had been a champion of the werewolves. He had been cherished by so many of his marginalized brethren, and I hated myself for having so carelessly ended his life.

I was alone then in the darkness, the only light streaming in through the bars on the dungeon door. There was a masked Death Eater stationed outside. I never saw my guards' faces but over time, I learned to differentiate them based on height and build. There were four in total that rotated in shifts. I eventually figured out Malfoy was the tallest and thinnest of the bunch, with a scar on the back of his neck.

But this sort of rational thinking came much later.

That first night, after I had cried until my stomach hurt, I told myself to get it together. I had to be calm and collected and think my way out of this. I had no other choice if I wanted to minimize damage done. Survival was low on my list of priorities, and I even considered ending my life to protect all the sensitive information the Order had foolishly entrusted me with.

My reality was quite hopeless, wasn't it? I had killed Greyback, one of Voldemort's most powerful allies. Best case scenario, if they let me live, they would first torture me for information and use me to bait the Order. Indeed, it was remarkable that I hadn't been brought before their supreme leader for any of the above yet. Whatever the delay was, I needed to use it cleverly to regroup.

At first, I tried to keep track of time based on meals and the rotation of guards. I failed miserably, drifting helplessly between consciousness and lucid nightmares. Each time I woke, I was paranoid I had talked in my sleep or that someone had looked inside my head and seen all my poorly guarded secrets - where my parents were hidden away in Australia, our knowledge of the horcruxes, the location of Grimwauld place...

I didn't know how right I was.

* * *

**Author's note: Hello lovelies! Thank you for all the feedback I've gotten on this story. I apologize for the longer than expected wait for this chapter. I got a bit side-tracked with Enchanted Relaxations, but that's done now and I'm going to be focusing on this story for a while, until I can get past the AYIA writer's block. I hope to update twice a week in short chapters or once a week with longer ones. As always, I would very much like to know what you think. Thank you for reading!**

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	5. Chapter 5

Malfoy's visit to my office set off a cascade of flashbacks and nightmares. I tried to rationalize that my time in his manor had passed so long ago, that no one would, or could, hurt me like that anymore, but the floodgates stayed open.

There were no shortage of terrifying memories rising from my subconscious. In the fortnight after our meeting, I would jolt awake several times a night, heart pounding and drenched in sweat. Sometimes, I would be contorted and writhing in pain. It was as if the memory of the Cruciatus were fossilized in my muscles and nerves, still present and ready to torment me. I hated that the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange, who had long turned to dust, should still have this sort of hold on me.

In the mornings, I left bed tired, frayed, and increasingly annoyed with Malfoy for bringing this unrest back into my life. I had been doing quite well before he showed up. I enjoyed my work, had wonderful friends, and had recovered enough from my fling with Cormac McLaggen (I know, I know - what was I thinking?) to begin dating again. I liked the woman I had become and liked where I was going in life.

Then, Malfoy waltzed in and I couldn't help but _remember_. Suddenly, I was eighteen years old again - chained and tortured at the whim of sadistic psychopaths. My scant hope during my imprisonment was that Draco Malfoy, the poster child for pureblood elitism, would somehow find it in himself to bestow upon me some mercy or kindness.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful - I am entirely aware of how lucky I am to have survived my ordeal. Still, it was apparent that though I lived and all my broken skin and bones were properly healed, and though a dozen years had peacefully passed, my psyche still shattered around those memories.

Of course, I am nothing if not practical and self-reliant. I knew, intellectually, that this was all a neuropsychological reaction to past trauma - hardly a rarity in society given the horrors of the war. I eventually brewed myself some dreamless sleep and made an appointment with Luna for counseling. There are, I find, very few problems in life that books and cleverness cannot solve.

I wasn't fixed overnight of course, but gradually, the intrusive memories of the torture became less crippling. What remained were the things I could not bring myself to share with her. Perhaps Luna sensed that I was holding back. She was always more intuitive than I gave her credit for. Indeed, it was she that suggested I pen my thoughts in a safe place, words just for me. And even here, I have not yet been able to fully admit the truth.

At work, I have managed to scrape by. So much of what we do is cloaked in secrecy anyway, that no one noticed that I wasn't half as productive as I usually am. Unfortunately, because I had delayed the start of my collaboration with Malfoy for weeks, I was forced to put what little industrious energy I did have towards our new programming language.

I liked the nature of the work, and on some level, I enjoyed working with him. One doesn't become an Unspeakable without substantial intellect, creativity, and work ethic. I don't mind admitting that Malfoy has always had these qualities. After all, he clearly demonstrated his resourcefulness in his early achievements as a Death Eater.

Still, I continued to avoid him when I could, preferring to communicate by Departmental Messenger rather than in-person meetings. The thing is though, I couldn't avoid him indefinitely. There were the meetings with Alfred to present our progress, then the countless meetings with other Unspeakables as we customized code for their rote magical functions. For Moira, we built a program which allowed her to wind all 5,926 of her magical clocks with a mere swish of her wand. Similarly, for Ariel, we wrote eleven lines of code that allowed him to polish each of his 4,096 of his magical orbs in one go.

I suppose it's alright to admit that we make a great team, professionally speaking.

I told myself I was grateful to never be alone with Malfoy. I never had any melt-downs. He was always the perfect gentleman, and our conversations focused solely on our projects. Even so, being physically proximal to him wreaked havoc on my dreams, and not ones where I relived pain and torture.

Instead, I began to dream of of sharing Hogsmeade weekends and sneaking off to the Room of Requirement and frantic snogs in empty classrooms. In my dreams, we were the teenage versions of ourselves. He would always start off petty and spiteful, and we would banter until he wasn't. By then, his lips were usually on mine and I'd be tugging off his belt. I would wake up turned on and frustrated, with my fingers pressing on my clit to relieve the ache in my core.

Then, the next day, I would open my inbox and find another round of his code edits; work continued as usual. I saw him at departmental meetings, straight-backed in his endless supply of tailored suits, greeting me (and everyone else) politely. I often wondered if he knew about my dreams, given his gifts in Legilimency. It was like I was in the dungeon again, but instead of a Death Eater's mask, he now hid behind this new edition of himself - Draco Malfoy, the tycoon Unspeakable.

Back in the dungeons, I was always begging and pleading with him. Any bravado or pride I had hoped to keep were long wiped away by pain and darkness and guilt. At first, I sought escape, death, or at least some, any, information about the fate of the war. Sometimes, I asked for pain potions or a quick Avada Kevadra. Eventually, all I wanted was reprieve from his indifference.

Only once did he give in, but once was all I needed.

* * *

**Author's note:** Ahhhh, I'm so excited to write and post more! With the way the story is progressing right now, there will probably be about 40 chapters (+/- 15), with continued jumping back and forth between flashback and present day. Please let me know what you think!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, the agony was so great I could not even remember the question they wanted an answer to. The fact was that there was no limit to how much they could hurt me, and in the end, I could only take so much. In each session, I tried my best to resist, to remind myself of how much others depended on me, and how much I would hate myself later for giving in. Eventually though, higher order cerebral processes like will power or loyalty will fall to the primal drives of fear and pain. At least that's what Luna tells me to assuage my guilt.

At first, they never seemed to ask the right questions. Thankfully, I truly didn't know how to access various Order headquarters or what attacks were planned or where Harry and Ron would be. All I had were theories about horcruxes, and I'm ashamed to admit, I eventually confessed them all in barely coherent, gasping rambles. I'm not sure they even understood me or took my ideas seriously, because those sorts of answers never brought an end to the interrogations.

At some point, it was clear their primary objective wasn't to glean information, but to inflict horror. After all, they could have simply given me Veritaserum and skipped the torment all together.

I learned first hand the infamous intensity of Bellatrix's Crucio. I could see why Voldemort chose her to be his right-hand Death Eater - that woman delighted in my torture such that she would cackle with genuine glee as I sobbed for mercy. Her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, left quite an impression as well. While his spells didn't pack quite the same punch as his wife's, he loved to layer different curses on top of each other so that every cubic inch of me felt all the variants of pain. They made a lot of sense to me as a couple.

I was tortured by others as well - mostly masked, likely junior Death Eaters, who sneered tired insults about my blood status combined with derogatory sexual comments. I think I was more of a training stop for them than anything else - a live, immobilized target on which to practice dark spells.

This one masked bastard Imperio-ed me to crawl on my knees to him. I still remember the groan of the chains dragging behind me through the sickly haze of his magic. He managed to get me to put my hands on his erection through his pants before I broke through enough to elbow him in the groin. He kicked me in the cheek and I smiled to myself as my vision turned black, the jeering laughter of his comrades like music to my ears. My chains were much tighter and shorter after that.

I suppose I learned a lot about Dark Magic in those days. I had time, in my remaining conscious hours, to reflect on the theory of the spells - why some were better at them than others. I memorized the feel of hate and disgust versus reluctant participation, and theorized about the effects of emotions on magical signatures. I often fantasized about getting my hands on a wand and executing powerful Dark curses in revenge. After all, I had learned the exact wand work, elocution, and resolve necessary to deliver my vengeance.

Along those lines, I tried relentlessly to cast wandless spells. Initially, I could perform little tingles of magic - like Accio-ing my sock off my foot. Over time however, as I grew weaker mentally and physically, my magical core withered and starved. I craved comfort of any kind. I developed a rather pitiful attachment to the house elf they sent to heal me and bring me sustenance. I never learned his name, as he was ordered not to speak with me. That was a mistake on their part. I think I would have confessed my soul to the little creature if he only just asked. Sometimes, he let me lean my head against his barrel-shaped chest, a kindness which often left me in tears.

Snape was a regular visitor to my cell as well. The first time was about ten days into my imprisonment. He looked down at me and wrinkled his nose in disgust, probably in response to the smell of my sweat, urine and excrement. I was chained in such a way that I had no choice but to soil myself. Every day or two, when the odor grew to be overwhelming, the guards would be disgusted enough to throw a cleaning spell of some sort in my direction. One of them, of medium build and with a hefty paunch, enjoyed blasting me with icy cold water until I wept and screamed for him to stop.

That day, my former professor cast a Tergeo so strong that my skin felt raw afterwards.

"Guard!" he called. Moments later, the masked man outside the door stepped in.

"Get the prisoner a cot and a bucket," he commanded. "Do you want her to grow ill from her own filth?"

The guard shrugged. "The house elf will fix her up if she does."

"Are you questioning me?" It was the same low and threatening voice he used on students caught out of bed after curfew.

The other man had enough sense to straighten his posture. "No sir. I'll get them right away."

Then, it was just me and Snape alone.

"Traitor," I accused pluckily. "If you think -"

"Silencio!"

His lips spread into a sinister smile as his spell robbed me of my voice. "I have always wanted to do that. Unbearable little swot."

He immobilized me further with a Petrificus Totalis, and I lay stewing helplessly as he placed his hands on my temples and entered my mind. It was strange, this numb violation, like I was anesthetized and cut wide open as he sifted through my insides. He thumbed efficiently through my life in the Malfoy dungeons, then through the months Harry, Ron, and I spent as horcrux-hunting nomads. He glanced at all the books I read and had tucked away in my magicked bag. Then he released me from both spells and left. The whole thing lasted less than five minutes.

At the time, I was thankful he steered clear of the memories of my parent's location. I was also grateful that it was painless, unlike the excruciating headaches Harry would get when Voldemort tore into his mind.

I told myself I was reading too much into Snape's gentleness. I was all too aware that my fragile mental state made me hunger for any sort of good will. It wasn't until after the final battle, when Snape's true allegiances were revealed, that I thought back to how carefully he handled my mind during all those Legilimency sessions.

To this day, I am not sure what he did with the information he gleaned from my memories. Surely, my outdated information was useless soon after I was caught. Perhaps, he kept coming back as a means to keep tabs on my well-being during my imprisonment. It wouldn't surprise me if his silver tongue was what convinced Voldemort to keep me alive.

Back then though, I was just grateful for the mattress.

My emotional vulnerability also seemed to have strange effects on my subconscious. My dreams alternated between vivid nightmares of the torture I endured during the day, and comparatively dull snippets of memories before Malfoy Manor.

For example, in one dream, I was in History of Magic, rolling my eyes at Ron and Harry after both fell asleep during Professor Binn's fascinating lecture on Chapter 89 of our text. In another one, the three of us and Ginny were drinking butterbeers in Hogsmeade. Harry and Ginny disappeared off somewhere, which left me and Ron alone. I remember that day even now - it was before Ron and Lavender started sharing saliva - and I had butterflies in my stomach as his hand found mine in the red leather booth.

One thing each dream had in common was that Draco Malfoy always turned up. It was unsurprising given that I was prisoner in his family home. Still, it annoyed me, that his existence should ruin perfectly good dreams that relieved me from my bleak and hopeless reality.

I quickly discovered I had free will in the dreams, and thrilled in it. If Malfoy showed up, I learned I could force a change in scene - from an antagonistic Potions lesson with the Slytherins to cheering in a quidditch match Gryffindor won against Hufflepuff. If I found myself facing off against him and Crabbe and Goyle in an empty corridor, I'd skip forward to later that evening when I was tucked into bed, listening to Lavender and Parvati gossip about who snogged who.

Malfoy always seemed to find me though, a sorry metaphor for the ugly existence that greeted me each morning.

Then, one night, I saw something that jolted me awake. We were in Care of Magical Creatures, and Hagrid had just summoned Buckbeak. I watched with dread as Malfoy walked brashly up to the hippogriff. I was about to change scenes, perhaps to an evening of studying alone in the library, when there it was on the back of his neck - an inch-long, jagged white scar.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 6**

Hello lovelies! Thank you for all the support you've given me on this story!!! Seriously, you guys are the best!! Next week, I have some very important work stuff happening, so the update will likely be delayed... Exciting things are to come though! I will try my best to deliver a juicy chapter the week after. If you have time, please let me know what you think about how the story is unfolding. I'm struggling hard to keep the tone consistent between chapters (a challenge to first person writing, I think).

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	7. Chapter 7

By that point, I had memorized defining features of my masked guards. There was the rotund man of medium height, the short, stocky man with stooped posture, the tall and broad-shouldered one who often smelled like peppermint, and the tall, thin figure with a scar on the back of his neck.

It was a distinctive mark, thick and straight, white and pink like it was new and still slightly raw. I imagined he received it as some gratuitous punishment, the sort Voldemort bestowed at random on his followers in moments of rage. Or perhaps, there was an accident during his last haircut.

As I woke, my heart and breath both raced in unease. Something about that scar on Malfoy set off warning bells I couldn't quite wrap my head around. As my mind cleared, I gradually came to the reasonable conclusion that my subconscious had ascribed the guard's scar to Malfoy. It was the exact sort of nonsensical mash-up that characterized dream states. However, my mundane dreams had otherwise been unusually logical and realistic, as if I were simply reliving past events. That in itself was strange.

I was unable to return to sleep after that. Instead, I examined everything I knew about dream magic. There were several restricted section texts I had thumbed through when Harry's Voldemort-laced nightmares first began. I knew, conceptually, that there were ways to plant or manipulate dreams. The way Malfoy kept turning up in my slumbered memories - was he somehow intercepting or manipulating my subconscious? If so, why? Was he attempting to glean information under Voldemort's orders?

It seemed excessive - the tortuous interrogations, Snape's Legillimency sessions, and now this. Did I have some precious piece of information that continued to elude them?

Or had Dream-Malfoy meant for me to see his scar, because he was in fact one of the Death Eaters outside the grated door? Could it be that he was in fact trying to help me?

For the first time since my capture, I felt hope. I recalled that haunted look on his face when his aunt had dragged him into the dungeons and asked him to identify us. He had not wanted harm to befall us. Of that, I was certain.

When the guard with the scar next turned up outside my door, I couldn't help but watch him fastidiously. The more I stared, the more Malfoy-like he became. I analyzed the shape of his neck, the width of his shoulders, the way he shifted weight from one foot to another.

I became convinced it was him.

And yet, if it was him, and if he did not want to hurt me, then why had he not done anything to protect me? He stood idly by as numerous Death Eater's came in and abused me within an inch of my life, as I lay crying in my own filth, as I begged pathetically for mercy. Furthermore, he had been so cold the last time I had seen him face-to-face, when he had blasted me unconscious.

I didn't know what to think.

That night, I dreamed of Hogwarts again. This time, I directed the dream to my memory of Ginny turning him into a ferret and the entire Gryffindor table guffawing over it at breakfast. I glanced over at Malfoy, who was sitting between Goyle and Pansy, his face bright red with embarrassment and anger.

Next, I relived the time the Slytherins were being tactless gits, showing off their fancy new racing brooms courtesy of Lucius Malfoy. I had delighted in the flash of insecurity in Malfoy's eyes when I reminded him that no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. It felt good to know that I could hurt him, that he wasn't half as tough as he pretended to be.

I then recalled the uproarious cheering in the stands as Harry beat Malfoy to the snitch. I had glanced over to the Slytherin section then, and saw Lucius get up and storm away in disappointment.

Finally, I took the dream to when I punched him in the mouth in front of his friends. My hand stung with the scrape of his teeth, but it had been so worth it to see him stunned, then scared. It was the day I showed him, and myself, that I wouldn't let anyone push me and those I loved around. I felt powerful and brave and self-righteous in my youthful arrogance. It was so satisfying, even in the dream, that I restarted the memory and lived it again. And again.

The third time, instead of running off in a whimper as he had in real life, he caught my hand and twisted it painfully.

"Enough," he snarled.

I watched in horror as his face lengthened and his jaw squared and his baby fat melted away to reveal regal cheekbones. He wasn't the fifteen-year-old Malfoy any longer and we were no longer flanked by our friends, standing on the Hogwarts grounds in a juvenile standoff.

Instead, we were back in the dungeon and he was crouched over me as I was sobbing from my most recent session with his aunt.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," he said snidely. "Smartest witch of our generation my arse."

When I woke, I was alone in the cell. I scrambled up to the highest crouch my restraints would allow and peered outside the bars. It was the broad-shouldered guard. He bent his head towards me at the sound of my chains scraping against the dungeon floor.

I glared at him and flipped him off. Then I sat back against the wall and ignored him.

I had a lot to think about.

* * *

 **Author's note:** As always, I am always hungry for feedback! Thank you to everyone who has supported the story! It means more to me than you know.

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	8. Chapter 8

I tried to tell Luna that I didn't need therapy anymore.

"I don't think you're done," she replied, without looking up from her notebook. I strongly suspected that she was doodling instead of taking notes.

"But I can deal with the flashbacks now, and I don't even have nightmares anymore. I haven't needed dreamless sleep for weeks now."

She turned her big blue eyes at me and stuck her quill into her hair. It joined the four others that already adorned her blonde tresses.

"Why did you come to me, Hermione?"

I blinked to hide the roll of my eyes. "I was held and tortured for weeks during the war. I hadn't dealt with it until now, but now I have, and you've done wonders for me. Thank you, Luna."

"You're welcome."

"So we're done then?"

"I doubt it."

"And why not?"

"You came to me, because something happened recently to bring your past to your present."

"Yes, but-"

"And we haven't dealt with the present, have we? So perhaps, we have not fully dealt with your past."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"It's alright," she said, in that ethereal all-knowing tone she sometimes uses when I get impatient with her. "I'm quite sure you do."

* * *

At around the same time, Ron brought Pansy Parkinson to one of our pub nights. I suspected he had been seeing someone new. He was always typing into his mobile with a little smile on his face and had stopped hitting on anything that moved. Still, I was surprised to see it was her.

She stood at his side, chin up and eyes guarded, like she was daring us to challenge her. Harry clapped them both on the back and bought us all a round of shots. Twenty minutes later, Pansy and Ginny were deep in conversation about quidditch or magical pedicures or something to the like. I laughed along politely and drank a little too much and wished I had someone to go home with.

I couldn't help but be a little sad that Ron was happy with her, and that she actually seemed good for him. It's not that I still pine for him, though I suppose a part of me did think it might have been us that wound up together in the end. No, it just made me feel more alone somehow.

I look at Harry and Ginny, Neville and Hannah, Lavender and Seamus, and so on, and I wonder if I'm capable of that kind of love. I've had serious boyfriends and I certainly loved them and appreciated them in my own way. But that earth-shattering, grin-like-a-fool kind of love? I don't think I've ever shared that with anyone, not in a way that really counted.

In a moment of self-doubt, I once asked Moira how she knew she was in love with her partner. She, Cornelius, and I had stayed late working on what eventually became the portal in my office. After Cornelius left, we found some firewhisky in the break room and the evening devolved into talking about life instead of equations.

I was dating Anthony Goldstein at the time. He was a Wizengamot lawyer, and we met when he took the lead on a class-action lawsuit a group of Vampires brought against the state department for discriminatory practices. It was part of my "cover job." Everyone in the Department of Mysteries has one, as our true professions as Unspeakables are, well, unspeakable.

My real office connects to a publicly accessible executive office in the Department of Advocacy for Magical Non-wizards or D.A.M.N. for short. My work for them is nominal at best - mainly showing up at monthly meetings and public events. Anyway, it was through one such meeting that I re-met Anthony.

I told myself we had "it," that intangible quality Moira described as the essence for true love. With Anthony, I measured the success of our relationship on performing activities of daily living well together. We were very efficient at grocery shopping and laundry, and we never fought. I suppose I thought that sort of teamwork somehow offset how he never quite understood my sense of humor and how I had taken to faking orgasms. Eventually, when our friends started to get married and have children, we found ourselves shopping for an engagement ring.

Then, one day, I caught him having an affair with his secretary. He was appropriately apologetic and I was appropriately tearful. We ended it on polite terms and closed the chapter on nearly three years of our lives. To be honest, I was relieved, because in my heart of hearts, I knew we didn't have "it."

As Pansy settled into our friend group, it was clear that she and Ron did. I suppose I did resent her a bit for being a horrid cow back in school, but for Ron's sake, I tried my best to form a cordial relationship with her. She still had a bit of a mean girl streak, a snide glare which she reserved specially for me. However, she seemed to warm to everyone else.

I asked Ron about it, which made him uncomfortable and evasive.

"For Merlin's sake," I told him. "I won't make you choose between us."

"I know that," he said. "I assumed it's because you know... we used to date."

"But she gets on with Lavender just fine!"

He shrugged. "I never loved Lavender like I loved you."

"But -" I looked at him, confused. "You never told me you loved me back then."

"Wasn't it obvious?"

"Well I mean, of course we loved each other, like we love Harry."

"No. Not like we love Harry."

"I don't understand. Why didn't you say anything?"

"It was clear you didn't feel the same way."

"I could have... eventually."

"No," he said firmly. "Maybe before you were left behind at Malfoy Manor, but after... Hermione, you didn't look at me the same anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do I have to spell it out?"

"Yes!" I insisted.

"Something happened to you in there-"

"Yes, they tortured me almost daily, Ron!" I was getting angry. "I'm sorry if I came out a little shaken up, and that I wasn't enough for you anymore."

"You were always enough for me," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "But I couldn't stay with someone that didn't love me back, even if it was you. Especially if it was you."

"I could have," I insisted again.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter now."

"And Pansy-"

"I really, really like her, Hermione."

"Love her even?"

"Yeah."

"And she loves you."

"Yeah."

"Well, that's all that matters, isn't it?"

* * *

About two weeks later, I saw Pansy and Malfoy having tea in Wizarding London. She reached forward and held his hand, and he pulled back. Curious, I cast a glamour over myself and stepped closer to observe them better.

All the months that I had worked with him, his expression was always smooth and suave, even when he was deep in thought. This day, he looked upset, and was shaking his head.

"Draco, please. It would mean the world to me if you'd come."

"I can't." His voice was filled with emotion, guileless and honest like back at Hogwarts, and so unlike how he was at work.

"Is it because of her?"

He didn't answer, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Merlin, I hate her for what she did to you."

"Shut up, Pansy," he snapped.

I turned and walked the other way, embarrassed that I had eavesdropped on such an intimate moment. I abandoned my errands and went straight home, where I fell upon my bed and cried until my chest ached and my stomach felt empty and sore.

I knew what I had done, and I hated myself for it too.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Not much dramione action this chapter, I'm afraid, but it was necessary to set to stage of where she is in her life. I promise plenty of dramione-ness next chapter! Thank you to all of you who took the time to leave kudos and/or let me know what you think! It's seriously so helpful and encouraging for me to get feedback!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	9. Chapter 9

I know I can be ruthless. It was what made me effective in the war.

I used to like that about myself - that I'd do whatever was necessary to ensure the ideal outcome. However, over the years, those cold, calculated decisions have weighed on my conscience.

Most of all, I miss my parents. On some level, I'm even glad the spell was permanent. I'm not sure they'd forgive me if they ever became cognizant of what I did. These days, I go to Australia twice a year and get my teeth checked at their dental practice. At Christmas, I send them tins of apple cake (my mother's favorite) and pecan tarts (my father's). That's the extent of our relationship. They've adopted a daughter, a pretty blonde who looks nothing like me. One time, she was in the waiting room doing homework, and I felt so very lucky to have gotten to meet my sister. I'm grateful that they seem happy, and that they have a full, rich life in Sydney. But sometimes, I play the what-if game. What if I could have found a different way? What if I had left Hogwarts when they begged me to, after Cedric died? What if I hadn't chosen magic over my family?

I regret killing Greyback as well, and said as much during my short trial. The charge was ruled self-defense, and quickly dismissed. The ministry had little sympathy for the "blood-thirsty werewolf dissident." I resented their bigotry, but was glad for the acquittal. Some war hero I am. The killing haunted me, particularly early on in my imprisonment - the way the blade had truncated his roar of pain, then extinguished his life.

I rarely slept well in the dungeons, even after Snape arranged for me to have a proper mattress. I would have given anything back then for a vial of sleeping drought. Essentially, I had two flavors of dreams - feverish nightmares of torture or Hogwarts memories. I far preferred the latter.

However, after the dream in which Malfoy broke from the scene I was reliving, he disappeared from my subconscious. I was disappointed, for I had plans of how I might further validate this potential link with him. Instead, I had nightmares for two weeks straight. It was horrible, and perhaps the damage showed. Snape commented that I looked "more haggard than usual" during his visit.

Every time the guard with the scar turned up, I spoke to him like he was Malfoy.

"Come back," I pleaded dozens of times.

"Please, I'll do anything. Anything. Please."

"I'm living between waking hell and nightmares. Can't you see I need you?"

"Help me! This isn't what you are! I know that you're good. I know you are."

He never responded and didn't so much as cock his head at my ramblings.

I began to doubt myself. Perhaps, they were non-magical dreams after all and this guard wasn't even Malfoy. Perhaps, I was simply going mad, desperate for hope and looking for connections that weren't there.

I did get remission from the nightmares eventually. It was after a particularly horrendous session with Bellatrix and Rodolphus. He had sliced my abdomen open, healed me, and repeated until Bellatrix said something along the lines of, "Knife play, Roddy? How plebeian."

Then she struck me with a Cruciatus so powerful I blacked out from the blinding pain.

When I came to, I was enveloped in the house elf's healing magic, laying atop a pungent, wet mess of what looked to be my own blood and vomit.

That night, I found myself in my old Gryffindor dormitory. It was wonderful to be out of my chains.

I had felt so dirty and sullied before I managed to find sleep, that I decided in my dream state to take a bath. I crept out of bed and made my way to the prefect bathroom. I scented the water with rose and jasmine and lavender, and swam until my skin pruned. With each stroke, I luxuriated in the flex and stretch of my Cruciatus-wrecked muscles.

I decided it didn't matter how these dreams came about, as long as I got to have them at all. I needed the mental reprieve from the goings-on in the Malfoy dungeons, and I intended to take full advantage while I could. I was just about to invoke a happy, giggly memory, in which Fred and George pushed Ron into the the Great Lake and somehow all of us ended up swimming in our clothes, when Malfoy appeared.

He strolled into the bathroom, whistling the tune of "Weasley is Our King."

I blushed when his eyes found mine. I became acutely aware of my nudity, and hoped the diffraction of the water would cover my private bits.

"You called?" he drawled.

I felt my face heat even more, remembering all the times I had begged the scarred guard to return to my dreams.

I tried to switch scenes, but the dream state would not budge. I was stuck, naked and alone with Malfoy. Maybe this was a nightmare after all.

He looked at me lasciviously. "You said you would do anything," he reminded me. "I didn't know this was what you had in mind."

Had the real Malfoy entered my subconscious? Or was this my approximation of him?

He was at the pool's edge now, and I watched him warily from below. I resented the way I had to crane my neck up at him, and how I cowered, hunched and timid, my hands covering my chest in modesty. He was fully dressed in his school robes, Slytherin tie and shiny shoes and all. If Malfoy was controlling my dreams, then he clearly intended to assert his power over me.

I recalled the pride and self-assurance I felt when I stood up to his bullying in the last dream. I drew strength from the memory. I'd be damned before I let him use my own bared skin against me. In reality, I had been naked in front of my guards and various Death Eaters numerous times. Nakedness meant nothing to me anymore, not in the face of debilitating torture and the embarrassment of soiling myself daily.

I fixed my eyes on his, pulled my shoulders back and dropped my hands. Then, I began to advance towards him.

To my satisfaction, the smarmy grin dropped from his expression and he gulped visibly as I climbed out of the water. He stumbled backwards, falling clumsily onto his behind. I almost laughed at the way his mouth formed a breathless 'O.'

At this point, the furthest I'd gone with a boy was some over-the-clothes snogging. I knew how sex worked, had seen it in some muggle pornography videos, and read about it in romance novels. I had experimented with pleasuring myself and looked forward to exploring my sexuality, though this was hardly the setting I imagined.

I tucked aside my qualms, now fully committed to my act as the confident seductress. From the way Malfoy shrank away, it was apparent that I had regained the upper hand.

"And what did you have in mind, Draco?"

I thrilled in how he blushed to his ears at my soft, breathy words.

He was nearly on his back now, propped up on just his elbows. My bathwater wetted his clothes as I stepped over him and straddled his hips. Slowly, I bent down until I was perched in his lap. The hardness of his length dug into my core, and then it was obvious - I was naked and alone with Draco Malfoy, but I was far from powerless.

As his eyes raked over my body, his face brimmed with pure awe and reverence. No one had ever looked at me that way before and in some quaint, teenage way, I felt connected to him in the vulnerability of the moment.

In my best imitation of a temptress, I pouted my lips as I reached for his hand and placed it on my breast. His touch was pleasantly warm, and sent a tingle down my spine. I wondered if he could feel my heart pounding in excitement and fear. I was afraid, I realized, that he might stand up and reject me. I was so very beneath purebloods, as my tormentors had reiterated time and time again. And since I met Malfoy when we were eleven, he had relentlessly made fun of my buck teeth and bushy hair. I hadn't even glanced in a mirror in weeks. What if I looked a fright?

He didn't seem to notice my wavering confidence. He was gentle as he tentatively ran his hands over my breasts, thumbing my nipples in a way that made me sigh. I had never been touched like this, and I guessed he was nearly or just as inexperienced.

Up close, I could see dark circles under his eyes. He looked pale and gaunt compared to the athletic boy I'd known in school. This was only Malfoy, I told myself. Entitled and spoiled. Intelligent, but petty. Handsome, but too thin. A bigot cavorting with a muggle-born. I could handle whatever he wanted of me.

I closed my eyes and relaxed into him. When he threaded his fingers in my hair and pulled me down against his mouth, I kissed him back. His lips were surprisingly plush and he tasted faintly of chocolate lemon creams. It reminded me of how his mother used to always send him sweets.

We kissed for what felt like ages, until I was squirming on top of him, my lower belly buzzing with what I now recognize as desire. Eager for more, I moved to undo his tie, but he stopped me. I realized that all the while, though I was completely nude and was gyrating against his erection, he had kept his hands above my waist. Had my seduction failed?

Following his lead, I let him pull me against his side into the crook of his arm. He managed to drape his discarded robe over me, and I settled into this unexpectedly chaste embrace.

I glanced up at him, but his eyes were fixed on the ornate ceiling, avoiding mine.

"Why did you do that?" he asked. His expression was unreadable, so unlike the brash boy I'd grown up with.

"Why are you in my dreams?" I retorted.

He frowned. As the silence dragged on, I regretted letting sharpness permeate my voice. Interrogating him was certainly not going to earn me any favors.

"To find out what you're hiding," he said at last.

I waited for him to pull away, but he never did. Neither did I. There we lay on the heated marble floor, surrounded by the floral-scented steam of my bath. I couldn't resist relaxing into the comfort and warmth of the dream, even with this boy I had never liked much. Pragmatism told me to tread cleverly, while all the rest of me that had been so hungry for affection and care indulged in burrowing my face into his chest and letting him play with my frizzing hair.

Did I have the upper hand then? Or was this what Stockholm syndrome felt like?

When I woke, I was back in the cell. For once, I was well-rested. The ache in my muscles was gone, as if I had truly experienced the therapeutic effects of the prefect bath.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Ta-da! Two updates in two days! Yay me! And finally some smuttish action. Gosh, it is so unlike me to delay the smut for this long, but this story very much calls for the slowish burn. I'm not sure if I'll be able to update again before December, but I'll try my best. FYI, I am loving the "guessing at what happened" comments. Thank you to everyone that left reviews. Seriously, your support means the world to me! I especially want to thank the new readers who took the time to leave thoughtful comments on every chapter. Goddammit, you guys are angels. I hope to incorporate your feedback into future chapters. As always, I'm eager to know what you think!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	10. Chapter 10

A couple days ago, Moira and I returned from three days on Emei mountain in southwest China, where a small population of Shenyi elves live high up in the forests beyond the clouds. They infuse the dense mist that cloaks the mountaintop with elements that are thought to promote focus and healing, and of interest to us, enhance magic.  
  
For muggles, the mist seems to promote spirituality and longevity. Unsurprisingly, a symbiotic relationship has been documented between the hidden elves and muggle monks cohabiting various sacred mountains throughout Asia. According to an 11th century text by magical ecologists, Heping Wang and Hermann Rowle, Shenyi elves can only produce mist if immersed in the profound calm brought on by those seeking enlightenment, thus forming a positive feedback loop.  
  
Magical beings have long been drawn to Shenyi elves as well, as magic also thrives in the mist.  However, the presence of muggle tourism, grown exponentially in recent decades, has effectively evicted all but the most clandestine magical organisms from the sacred mountains.

Indeed, this was one of the examples Voldemort gave when promoting his vendetta. Intelligence reports say that the earliest Death Eaters, including Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange, were inducted into his service on Emei, their loyalty and zealousness cemented by the intoxicating surge of magic brought on by the mist.  
  
On the mountain, I felt my own magic sharpen and course easily through me, such that even complex spells could be cast without a wand. It’s not that I gained power; rather, I was somehow more connected to my magical core. I’ve spent so much of my life mulling over magical theory, read hundreds of thousands of pages on it, and prided myself on technique and memorized minutia. Then, when I was up there, everything aligned in a way that paled the precise control I’m usually so obsessed with and brought forth an incredible sense of harmony. I wasn’t doing magic; I _was_ magic and magic was me.  
  
Tom Riddle was a clever monster, wasn’t he?

All my secret burdens - my inner scars and sadness and nonsensical lust for the wrong man - faded as I breathed in and out, taking in the fog that rolled over the majestic peaks. For the first time in months, I felt at peace.  
  
The mist’s effects were undoubtedly real. Moira felt it too, and we verified the changes to our magical signatures through careful measurement. When she examined the mist through her I.D.V.L. (Inter-Dimensional Viewing Lens), she reported the presence of an unknown element which somehow remained constant despite changes in dimensionality. It was an apparent paradox. Confused, we bottled the mist and brought it back for Cornelius and Ariel to look at.  
  
However, though we sealed the sample carefully, and though the rest of the mist was perfectly preserved, this mysterious element could no longer be detected. As a result, Alfred called a team meeting in his office to discuss our next step.  
  
Cornelius rubbed his stubbled chin in thought. “Either the element cannot be contained by our sealing protocol, or it’s simply unstable outside of the Emei environment.”  
  
“Like because of altitude or something?” Moira suggested.  
  
“Altitude. Temperature. Oxygen levels. It could be anything, really.”  
  
“Either way,” Ariel piped up. “I think it’s best if we go with you back to Emei to study it in person.”  
  
“That’s an excellent idea,” Alfred said.  
  
The rest of us nodded in agreement.  
  
“I think it’s best if Draco go with you as well.”  
  
My heart sank. “Why?” I asked. Based on Alfred’s raised eyebrows, I’m not sure I managed to keep my voice nonchalant.  
  
“You two have done excellent work in the beginning stages of your collaboration. I think it’s best you move to the next stage, don’t you?”  
  
“The next stage?”  
  
“Yes, for him to help you automate the quantification of magical signatures on a broader range of parameters.”  
  
It took everything to maintain my composure. I knew Alfred was doing this on purpose. Though he’d never confronted me about my reluctance to work with Malfoy, my uncharacteristic delay was hardly subtle. Thus, he was giving me an assignment here, in front of my peers, on a team project - it would be outright insubordination for me to refuse.  
  
I felt everyone’s eyes on me as I hesitated.  
  
“I thought I might stay behind and analyze the rest of the mist,” I said carefully. “We’re not even sure this element has any significance.”  
  
“I disagree,” Cornelius said, unhelpfully. “A paradoxical element in an elven mist that profoundly affects magical beings and muggles… Even the slight possibility of its’ existence warrants investigation.”  
  
“But it could have been some kind of error on our part,” Moira pointed out. “Might be a waste of time for us all to go.”  
  
“Moira Lansing and Hermione Granger BOTH being wrong? Unlikely,” Ariel said, with a laugh.  
  
My stomach was swimming with dread at this point.  
  
“Hermione, I agree you must analyze the mist and I expect a report on your findings,” Alfred said, unsmiling. “But it is imperative that you return to Emei. With Draco.”  
  
“Yes, absolutely,” Cornelius agreed.  
  
“It will be harder to blend in with the muggles if our group is larger,” I tried again.  
  
“I’m certain this lot of geniuses will figure something out, won’t you?” Alfred voice was light, but he was looking at me sharply.  
  
“Yes!” Ariel said, excitedly. “If anyone asks, we’re a muggle family on vacation. The von Straplings!”  
  
I inwardly groaned. She always got a bit carried away with backstory when it came to our rare undercover assignments.  
  
“Cornelius and I can be parents to you darling girls. And Draco can be your boyfriend! No, fiancee! No, boyfriend is better. Oh, I’ve the perfect glamours in mind!”  
  
“See?” Alfred said. “All figured out.”

I wanted to argue, but any further protest would have it made painfully obvious I didn’t want to work with Malfoy.   
  
“Right.” I smiled weakly and nodded. “Sure.”

* * *

Later, when it was just me and Moira in my office, siphoning mist into numerous sample vials, she could apparently still sense my unwillingness.  
  
“So, what’s up with you and Draco?” she asked, abruptly.  
  
Even though I was pondering just that, the directness of her question still caught me off guard.  
  
“Nothing,” I answered shortly.  
  
“Hermione.” She set down her vials and fixed me a pointed look. I concentrated on my sample and pretended not to notice.  
  
“It’s nothing,” I insisted.  
  
She sighed and resumed working.  
  
“It’s no secret you were the same year in school,” she began after a silence.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And that you were held for almost six weeks as prisoner in Malfoy Manor.”  
  
When I finally glanced at her, she looked hurt at my stony countenance. I felt bad. Moira is my closest friend in the department. Though she’s only three years older than me, she’s been in the department for upwards of two decades. She ties with Alfred as having been the youngest Unspeakables ever, joining at only fourteen, and was was certainly the brightest witch of _her_ age. She’s been a my mentor, teammate, and confidante. In many ways, she understands me better than Harry or Ron ever could.  
  
So yes, I felt bad, but I couldn’t give her my darkest secret, or explain to her what I didn’t understand myself.  
  
“Did he do something to you back then?” she pressed on. “Is that why -“  
  
“No.”  
  
“If he hurt you-“  
  
I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. The kindness in her voice seemed to only enlarge the lump in my throat and expedite the now all-too-familiar tears I had on reserve for him.  
  
She frowned. “It’s not right that Alfred force you to work with someone that abused you.”  
  
I shook my head again. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” I managed to say without my voice breaking.  
  
“I can talk to Alfred-“  
  
“No, it’s alright.”  
  
“Do you want me to hate him? Draco, I mean. I could you know. He’s awfully poncy.”  
  
I gave her a small smile. “He is, isn’t he?”

* * *

Through the lens of adulthood, it’s hard to not feel that we were merely chess pieces in the tussle between Tom Riddle and Dumbledore. Back then, I was willing to give everything for our greater good - the perfect little soldier.  
  
Ron was right. Something happened to me down in those dungeons. I thought it would be easier, now that I am older and wiser, to look back on things and see them more clearly. But as I write and write, I get muddled in interpretation. It was easier on Emei, the misty mountain air freeing me of such burdens.  
  
Back in London however, I quickly returned to my memories of my imprisonment. I spent my alone time ruminating over patterns of lucid dreams and waking life. I obsessed over what was real versus a desperate attempt of my subconscious to protect itself. Even back in the cell, it wasn't hard to see that the dreams would only come after particularly horrendous torture sessions, except for at the end, when they came every night.  
  
I was grateful for the dreams. I needed them. Through them, I created hope for survival. Or should I say, Draco Malfoy created hope for me?  
  
Luna tells me to look for my truth, but I’ve never really liked the idea of multiple truths. Rather, I’ve always taken greater comfort in facts, unalterable, unarguable pillars of reality.  
  
So here are the facts:  
  
Fact 1. I was held prisoner for five weeks and six days at Malfoy Manor.  
  
Fact 2. Never once during that time, did I come face-to-face with Voldemort.  
  
Fact 3. Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, and numerous other masked Death Eaters took turns interrogating me, using Dark Magic and torture.  
  
Fact 4. Severus Snape regularly examined my mind through Legillimency.  
  
Fact 5. When I finally managed to free myself, the healers at St. Mungo’s were shocked at how well-preserved I was given the obvious abuse and my having been chained to a wall for six weeks.  
  
Fact 6. I fucked Draco Malfoy. 

Fact 7. I wanted to.  
  
Fact 8. We now work together in the Department of Mysteries.  
  
Fact 9. At work, we pretend it never happened.  
  
Fact 10. Thanks to Alfred Krumperdinkle, in a fortnight, I am going to be spending ten days on Emei mountain, working and sharing a room with him.

* * *

 **Author's note:** THANK YOU to everyone who has supported the story and provided me with so much encouragement. You guys are awesome!!! As always, I hunger for feedback! 

Ps - The “chess piece” line was totally inspired by PartyLines’s amazing dramione one-shot, “Checkmate.”

xoxo, 

bourbonrain


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning** : There is dubious consent in this chapter!

* * *

I think I hate the girl I used to be. I think that's why these memories are so hard to recount. I want to bury her and all her self-righteous justifications. I want to be absolved of all her ruthlessness that made me a war hero. Maybe that's why Malfoy still affects me so much. He's the only one who saw it all - my ugly and pathetic, the desperation I convinced myself was strength.

You have to understand - my world had grown so small in that rank, damp cell. I had long memorized the way the thick slabs of stone stacked and cobbled to form my prison, and watched as they stained with my blood and bile and waste. My clothes were greasy tatters no one had bothered to mend. I longed to stand and stretch, both my muscles and my magical core. Instead, I learned to be thankful that my wrists and ankles had finally grown calloused to protect against the chafe of the manacles.

I had no allies in there. I had no idea what was going on in the war I had abandoned my parents to fight. Though Snape still inspected my mind every few days, the vicious torture Bellatrix and Rodolphus indulged in had little to do with gleaning information. Furthermore, not only had my utility to Harry and the Order had expired, but I worried I was bait to provoke a foolhardy rescue. In short, I was waiting to die, and hoped it would be soon.

All my life, I'd prided myself on being clever and resourceful, but I was all out of tricks.

Until the dream with the prefect's bath.

Malfoy's strange mission to search my subconscious provided an unexpected opportunity outside the powerless state of my waking life. It wasn't the most sophisticated plan, but I was determined to ingratiate myself to him, and take every bit of information and freedom he'd give me in return. All was not lost, and I thrilled in my newfound sense of purpose.

I confess I felt something else too - a tinge of nervous giddiness, the sort I felt for Ron when we lay close together at night in the Forest of Dean, or when Victor's warm hand rested on my skin as we danced at the Yule ball. It was untoward, I know, to feel such things for Draco Malfoy, a boy who had always been cruel to me, but I couldn't help it. It felt good to be wanted in that way.

After I woke, I replayed the feel of him against me, the reverence in his eyes as he explored my flesh, and the unmistakable ache between my legs I wanted him to press into.

I was disappointed when he didn't return to my dreams that night. Or the next. He didn't appear as one of my guards either.

I began each morning wondering if and how I would be tortured. There were days when they left me alone altogether, but there was no discernible pattern to my so-called interrogation schedule. My cell was quiet in days after the dream.

Then, my worst fear came true.

Bellatrix often flew into my cell in a fit of rage, eager to take out her frustrations on the mudblood prisoner. I found a smidgeon of comfort in her foul moods, as I hoped they meant our side had prevailed in some way. That day, however, she was smiling and practically bouncing in delight.

"Roddy had wanted to kill you, you know," she informed me gleefully. "But I insisted we keep you alive. You see, the Dark Lord loves the memories of your sweet suffering and to share them with your precious little friends."

"No...," I shook my head in horror.

"He hadn't been able to until now. The fortress inside your head bruised him, you see. Many of us wanted you dead just for that. But wasn't he wise to listen to me? He's much better now, our immortal lord. Stronger by the day!"

I could hardly process the meaning of her words as I stared at the the whites of her teeth and the rise of her cheekbones in the awful, shrieking laugh that echoed off the musty stone walls.

"Harry Potter is the one that's weak now! I wish you had seen it, mudblood, the way my blade flew straight at him! Oh, it was a shame to lose such a pretty relic, but so worth it to hear him cry out!"

My gut twisted and sank. Bellatrix's sneer blurred through my tears, and my ear drums hurt with the pang of her gloating.

"Is he dead?" I sobbed. "Did you kill him?!"

But she had already flounced out of my cell, her cackles echoing off the stone foundation of Malfoy Manor as she ascended the stairs out of the dungeon.

I hurt in a whole new way, far worse than any physical pain they could inflict on me.

* * *

Somehow, I knew the dreams would come that night.

All the other times my subconscious entered Hogwarts, I had indulged in the respite from reality.

Not this time.

Bellatrix had left me in a state of panic and sorrow, which persisted in my lucid dream state. Could he really be dead? Wouldn't Voldemort be furious that Bellatrix killed Harry and defied the prophecy?

I coldly summoned memory after memory in which I knew Malfoy should appear. I was determined to make him give me some answers.

However, when I looked to the seat in Potions next to Goyle, the chair was empty. At the Yule ball, Pansy Parkinson stood by herself. In the quidditch game, Slytherin played without a seeker.

The cowardly git was avoiding me.

I felt foolish then for the girlish pining I'd done for him, which he evidently did not reciprocate. And yet, his physical desire for me in the last dream was unmistakable, as was the gentleness with which he held me until I returned to reality...

I'm not proud of this, but I went back to the prefect bath and stripped off all my clothes. I suppose I expectedly my nudity would draw him back to me. Pitiful, wasn't it? I swam lap after lap and felt none of the invigoration the waters gave me the first time. Instead, I was all too aware of his continued avoidance of me.

I mulled over everything he told me in the last dream - he meant to find out what I was hiding. However, I had already answered every question they asked me under torture. What else could they still want to know?

Finally, I went to the Room of Requirement during DA practice and waited. I watched Harry demonstrate a Patronus. Across the room, Ron honed the snap of his wrist during Expelliarmus under Luna's tutelage. I wondered how many more times Malfoy would let me see my friends like this.

Eventually, Malfoy walked in, scowling. He wore his full school uniform, his Slytherin tie knotted neatly beneath his neck and his platinum blonde hair slicked back severely. Despite his crisp clothes and grooming, he looked as worn as I felt.

I ran past my friends and accosted him.

"Draco," I said breathlessly.

Then it was just us in the dueling room, Dumbledore's Army evacuated by a flex of my mind.

"Why are you hiding from me?" I demanded.

"Just wanted to see where you would go. Imagine my surprise when I realized you were simply looking for me."

I frowned. "Why should that surprise you?"

He shrugged. "Well, mudblood, I'll leave you to your pals."

Before I had time to react to his use of the slur, I felt him shifting away from the scene.

"No! Don't go! Please!"

I jerked the dream away from his control, and transformed the room into a bedroom. Merlin, I cringe at my forwardness that night. The worst was yet to come.

He raised his eyebrows, before his lips twisted in that poncy smirk I knew so well.

"Nice," he said, glancing at the velvet-canopied bed I had summoned. "Going to let me touch your tits again?"

His words stung. They were obviously meant to.

"If you want," I said smoothly, keeping malice from my tone.

He bristled when I didn't rise to his barbs.

"What do you want mudblood?"

I want to know about Harry, I thought. And Ron. And Luna and Ginny and Neville. And the rest of the Weasleys. And Tonks and Remus. And Dobby. And so many others. About the horcuxes and the Elder wand. And. And. And.

Instead, I said, "How come you haven't been back?"

He shrugged again. "Been busy. Miss me, did you?"

My mind raced. Something had obviously changed since the last time. The sweetness of that dream still rang in my head, but that version of him was no where to be seen tonight. It didn't matter. I couldn't afford to abandon my plan.

"I have so many questions," I said, stepping closer to him.

"What else is new?" he replied with a roll of his eyes.

He turned to walk away again, which caused me to scamper after him.

"Draco, please." I grabbed his hand, but he yanked it away from me. The momentum threw me to my knees and I swung my arms out and encircled his legs.

"Please," I said again.

He looked coldly down at me. He looked so much like his father then, arrogant and contemptuous. I half expected him to kick me away.

I resented him for making me feel so beneath him. Rage jarred my stomach, but I forced myself remain doe-eyed.

"How the mighty have fallen," he sneered, as if reading my thoughts.

"You know, I expected more of you Granger. Took you all of two seconds before you started babbling about horcruxes."

I felt flushed, the heat of my shame spreading down my face and chest, and deep into my gut. In that moment, I felt all the hurt his aunt had interned into my nerves. I was no longer the prim, studious girl I was just a few months ago. My old desires - for academic praise and pristine NEWTS and house points - seemed so insignificant.

No, I had become a wild animal, beaten and chained and desperate. The new me was dangerous. I didn't have room for pride or insecurities. I had nothing to lose.

"Please," I said. "Just tell me, are my friends alright?"

He made a noise of incredulity. "Why should I tell you anything?"

"Why can't you?!" I exclaimed. "I'm going to die in here, aren't I? Once they figure out there's nothing else to get out of me. Please, I just... need to know."

He considered me for a moment. By then, I had my hands resting on his thighs, and he didn't step away.

"There IS something you're hiding," he insisted. "Snape is certain there is!"

"He's wrong."

"He's not."

I licked my lips and didn't miss the way he shifted his stance and swallowed uncomfortably.

"And I don't know about die," he continued. "Aunt Bella gets a real kick out of having you around. She shares the memories with the Dark Lord, you know. I think he gets off on them."

His words which confirmed Bellatrix's made me feel sick. There was no doubt that Voldemort's taunting of Harry elicited the failed rescue attempt. My very existence was now a certain threat to the Order.

"Is Harry alright?" I asked, bracing myself for an unpleasant truth.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "What's it to you anyhow? Nothing you can do about it in here."

His reluctance to confirm Harry's death gave me a sliver of hope.

"I... I just want to know." I traced small circles behind his knees. "I'll do anything." I rose slightly and reached for the button at the top of his slacks.

He stood frozen, glaring down at me. I'd never felt more hated, and yet, the evidence of his arousal was unmistakable through his trousers.

I watched him carefully, patiently, as he fought some internal battle to resist me. Undeterred, I unbuttoned his pants and slowly slid down the zipper. I didn't miss his heavy sigh when my actions relieved the pressure containing his erection.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"I already told you," I said, drawing him out. "Anything."

His hand went into my hair and tightened into a fist. My eyes turned from his darkening gaze to his engorged length, which bobbed less than an inch from my face. How messed up is it that I still have that first memory of Malfoy's penis so clearly etched in my mind? It was clean and thick, and looked proportionately too large on his thin frame.

For a moment, I hesitated. I had never done this before, and I didn't want my inexperience to show. I thought back to muggle video clips I had seen of women sensuously licking then sucking cocks, and of all the giggly bragging Lavender had done in our shared chamber of how she deep-throated Ron and swallowed his cum.

Experimentally, I opened my mouth and let the tip of my tongue graze Malfoy's frenulum.

He closed his eyes and arched his neck upwards, visibly giving into my onslaught.

Encouraged, I delivered swirled licks around the bulbous head of his cock.

"Fuck," he sighed a moment later when he looked back down at me. "You never give up do you? What won't you do for them, Granger?"

He was guiding me now, rocking in and out of my wide open mouth. I thought his ministrations were a response to my inexperience, and I doubled down and tried harder so he wouldn't know it was my first time.

I hollowed my mouth around him and took his cock eagerly, massaging his balls with growing confidence. Giving pleasure in this way... felt strange. There was no stimulation of my genitals, and yet, my pussy grew restless and clenched involuntarily around nothing. And again, there was that subtle ache in my lower belly that I didn't know what to do with.

He was so tense, his grip tight in my hair, his posture stiff - a world removed from the gentle exploration of my body on the prefect bath marble.

Weeks later, when I was free and kissing Ron tentatively on the final battlefield, I thought back to this moment and convinced myself that I was thinking of pleasuring my best friend the entire time. I suppose that's when I started lying to myself, covering up the truth of this whole ordeal.

"Sad," Malfoy said. "That this is the only card you've got left."

His words stung because they were true. And because until he said them, I had momentarily forgotten why I was giving Draco Malfoy a blowjob. I was so immersed in how he felt against my tongue, and the ache between my legs, and how much my breasts wanted to be touched.

He was full-on thrusting into my mouth now, and I did my best to open my throat for him. He eased up a bit when I began visibly gagging, but he eventually increased again in both speed and depth.

In the end, I choked around him until tears ran down my face and my scalp burned and my mouth filled with salty, bitter fluid. I swallowed it down, remembering Lavender solemnly informing us that, "Boys love it when you drink their cum."

He still looked so angry when I peered up at him through my tear-soaked eyelashes.

He jerked me up by my collar. I thought he might hurt me, how livid he was. It showed in the kiss. He bit and sucked my lips and thrust his tongue against mine in a frenzy, like he was restless and hungry. I knew just how he felt. His hands were everywhere, pulling urgently at my clothing. Somehow, he maneuvered me to the bed, and I felt the softness of the plush mattress hit my back.

When his hands went under my skirt and into my knickers, he made this feral groan that I've begun dreaming about since he reentered my life.

"Fuck, you're wet," he murmured.

I think I was whimpering in I didn't know what, but I put a hand on his and stilled him.

"You have to tell me," I panted. "Is Harry still alive? Is Ron?"

And just like that, he drew back from me, disgusted.

I sat up on the bed, flipped my skirt back down over my knees, and smoothed out the fabric.

"Is it really worth it?" he asked coldly. "Just to find out if scar head and weasel are still kicking?"

"Are they?" I pressed.

He tucked himself back into his pants.

"Yeah," he said shortly. "They are."

Relief flooded through me, and suddenly, I was very, very tired. I wished then that Malfoy would stay and hold me again. Once again, pitiful, right?

"Then, what was Bellatrix going on about? What blade? What happened?"

He folded his arms against his chest and his lips were in a thin line. I'd had another episode of intimacy with him, and once again, he stayed fully dressed the entire time. It wasn't really intimacy then, was it, I mused.

Then, there was something about how he looked away.

"What is it?" I asked. "What are you not telling me?"

He turned and started to walk away again. I felt the dream starting to fade.

This was going horribly. I needed to get him to want to stay. To want to talk to me. Obviously being a willing orifice for his dick did nothing of the sort.

"Malfoy," I snapped. "Don't you dare go."

He stopped and the dissolving edges of the room reformed.

My thoughts raced. I didn't know what else I could offer him. Last time, he had held me and played with my hair. What had changed?

"What do you _want_?" There was a ragged edge to his voice, like he was at his wit's end.

For you to make me feel good, I thought.

"For you to kill me," I said plainly.

"You know," he said without turning to face me. "For someone who thinks she's so clever, you really are an idiot."

And then he was gone again.

I woke up in the middle of the night, relieved from the news Malfoy had shared with me and yearning for something I still don't quite understand.

* * *

 **Author's** **note** : Hello lovelies! Thank you to everyone who has supported this story - it really means so much to me! So, oh man, I really wanted to post this chapter earlier but life has been kicking my ass. Hopefully, the much-longer-than-usual chapter makes up for the delay.

I also want to address concerns that this work is reading as disturbing. You're right if you think Hermione is unpacking things that are hard to swallow, and certainly the story has not been romantic thus far. I think it's not easy for her to come to terms with these memories she's repressed for her entire adult life, and back in chapter one, she even tries to rationalize why they shouldn't matter. They obviously do matter and the aftermath is this story.

Anyway, a lot happened this chapter, and I'm so eager to know what you think (good and/or bad and/or constructive)!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	12. Chapter 12

The flashbacks and bad dreams have started up again.

"Why do you think that is?" Luna asked during our last session.

I've clearly been having a bit of a reaction to my upcoming work trip, but I don't want to discuss the likes of Draco Malfoy with Luna. I don't think I'm even allowed to really, according to the Unspeakable Unbreakable Bond I took six years ago.

"Not sure," I told her.

"Hmm," she replied. "You're really not sure of much these days, are you?"

I hate it when she uses that tone.

She sighed, then shifted her amethyst-rimmed spectacles up into her hair. Without the glare of the glasses, her eyes were big and blue and she looked so very much like the Luna of before, clear-skinned and ethereal despite the dark dungeon we found her in.

Just like that, I was in the rank cell again. I had just killed Greyback and the shadow of that raw blast of magic still reverberated through my nerves . Malfoy was bent over me, fiddling with the chains I would wear for weeks.

"Draco," I begged. "I need you to help me."

"In your fucking dreams, Mudblood."

"... not unusual at this time of year. Many of my clients suffer exacerbations of symptoms around the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. But the date isn't it for you, is it Hermione?"

I shrugged. "It could be. Yes, that could be it. I'll just pick up some dreamless sleep to get through these next few weeks."

She leaned forward, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were both teenagers again, teetering on the precipice between bravery and folly, loyalty and blind trust, our whole lives ahead of us while we wasted away in some mildewed prison. Little Luna, with the odd corks in her hair and the lilt in her voice as she glided through tragedy and difficult truths. I had thought her so _silly_ back then, whereas I was so very brilliant you see, the brightest witch of her age.

"... come to the surface eventually."

I'm so easily lost in my own thoughts these days. I don't think I've ever felt so worn. I drag myself out of bed each morning, exhausted from trying to sleep all night.

At work, I've bungled multiple attempts at analyzing the mist. My hands are shaky and I expend way too much effort avoiding Malfoy. Then, I'll be buying coffee down in the foyer and catch myself eyeing the Witch's Weekly issues stacked by the register, itching to see how beautiful his latest fling is.

"... don't have to tell me, but you have to at least tell yourself the truth. We owe ourselves that much, don't we?"

I wasn't looking at Luna anymore, but rather at the calendar behind her desk. Today would have been the day after Harry and Ron attempted to release me from Malfoy manor. I know this, because after the war, I secretly obsessed over the timeline of what happened in the outside world while I was imprisoned. It was such dime store self-help coping, as if learning facts and details of everything I missed might recover all the time I had lost.

"...lost."

I turned my gaze back to Luna. She was wearing her thick glasses again. They're charmed to help her read auras, a technology of her own invention which has been popularized amongst neuromantists and healers.

I'm not sure what came over me in that moment. Maybe I was too exhausted to keep my guard up, but I gave her a bit of truth I didn't expect to.

"Yesterday," I said. "Would have been when Vincent Crabbe died."

She nodded solemnly, sagely, as if the creases of my wretchedness could one day be smoothed away.

At home, I drew myself a bath and scented it with rose and jasmine and lavender. I closed my eyes and imagined that it was the prefect's pool. I spend so much of my off hours in solitude these days, retreating to the past, in search of what?

What good does it do to remember the first time I pleasured Malfoy with my mouth? To so sharply recall his punishing grip in my hair, the clumsy stretch of my lips around his cock, and the weight of him spread over me?

After I had jolted awake, hours before the elf usually delivered breakfast, I lay on the thinning cot and replayed it over and over. I fantasized about not stilling his hand between my legs, and him not ending the dream when he did. I wondered if I'd ever properly get to do something sexual, not in a dream, and not with someone who disliked me.

Likely not, I reasoned, for there was the matter of my continued existence putting my friends in danger. I needed to convince Malfoy, or some other Death Eater, to kill me.

It would be my last gift to the Order.

As if my wish had been answered, there was a sudden, sharp burst of pain in my side. I half-curled up, half-scrambled into a sitting position. Standing before me was a Death Eater, with his mask removed. His eyes were bloodshot and white-specked dark stubble framed his mouth.

I was so engrossed in my trite fantasies that I didn't hear him come in and stun the guard on duty.

Before I could so much as scream in protest, he was on me. His knee crushed my chest and thick fingers wrapped tight around my neck, an abrupt blockade to my airflow.

Instinctually, I bucked against him and tried my best to attack him with my chains. When that did no good, I began to claw at his eyes. Through my panic and dimming vision, I realized he was roaring insults at me, with thick, choking sobs. His face was wet, slippery with tears.

I let my hands fall to my side, and let this hulking, crying man force life from my body.

This was it, I told myself. This was what I asked for. Now, my friends would be safe from trying to rescue me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of red. Someone had stunned him, but the man's grip on my throat didn't waver. I heard footsteps scampering down the dungeon stairs. There were more ruby rays and a familiar voice shouting, "STUPEFY!"

I registered that it was Malfoy in my cell, throwing curses at my would-be killer.

The spell eased his grip around my throat and I could breath again. I gulped air greedily, and then felt guilty for it.

"Don't stop," I heard myself rasp. "Kill. Me."

I don't think they heard me.

"It's because of this fucking mudblood that Vincent's dead!" My executioner's voice was coarse and ragged with sorrow. He had risen from his attack position. Despite the reprieve, I could barely maintain consciousness.

Malfoy responded quietly, with words I couldn't make out.

The older man was bellowing again: "I thought my son was your friend!"

I blacked out then. The next thing I knew, I was once again surrounded by the house elf's healing magic.

When I came to, everything was quiet. The short, stocky guard paced outside my cell. It was like nothing had happened, but I could still feel Crabbe Sr.'s grip along my windpipe and the heavy crush of his knee against my sternum.

In my dream that night, I found Malfoy under a moonless sky. He was throwing stones into the Great Lake and I could hear them skip along the surface of the water before they sank.

After a while, he came and sat beside me. The grass was wet, but we didn't seem to mind.

"I'm sorry about your friend," I said quietly.

He let out a humorless laugh. "You're the one chained in the dungeon. Why are you sorry?"

"I know you cared about him."

"You have no idea what I care about."

I reached for him then, and he let me put my arms around his too-sharp shoulders. Through his thin robes, he was all sinew and bone. After a silence, I could feel him trembling.

"You saved my life today."

He didn't respond for a long while. I could hear his sniffles, tucked close to my ear. I ran my touch along his spine and rubbed small circles into his back, the way my mother used to before Hogwarts, when I'd come home crying from the teasing at school.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and low. "You're so fucking naive, mudblood."

"I assure you I'm not. And don't call me that."

I felt his face move in what I presumed was a scowl.

"How did Crabbe die?"

He pulled away from me slightly and I withdrew my arms. We sat close together without touching, and I missed the warmth of him in the chilly night.

"Killed by a deflection of his own spell. The idiot. He hadn't the proper training to use dark magic like that."

Encouraged by how candid Malfoy was being, I reached for his hand and squeezed it. When he didn't pull away, I pressed on.

"Who deflected it?"

"Can't be sure, really. Might have been Weasley. The whole fight was chaos. It all happened so fast."

After a silence, I flexed my mind and took us back to the Room of Requirement and the velvet-canopied bed. This scene was dark too, lit by barely there candles already burnt to their bases.

He watched me warily as I edged closer to him on the bed.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Don't you want to feel good?"

"Granger-"

"Let me make you feel good."

Please make me feel good.

When I kissed him, he pushed me down and eased his weight over me. His arm was splayed across my chest, while his other hand threaded gently through the top of my hair.

"You _wanted_ him to kill you," he accused.

"Yes," I agreed.

"Why?"

"Harry-"

"Shut up about Potter. Does your life mean so little to you?"

In the dim light, I could see the anguish on his face.

"What would you have me ask for instead?" I asked quietly. "What is there left for me?"

"You have friends risking their necks to save you!"

He spat these words out bitterly, and I didn't know if he meant them with disgust or envy.

I couldn't argue his point without devolving into tears so I just shook my head. Didn't he know? My friends' heroics were precisely the problem.

He shifted and stilled my face in his hands. It felt so intimate, to be held like this by him. He looked beautiful then, his pale hair falling forward to frame his face, grey eyes dark and angry, his usual frown sharpened by desolation.

"I really am sorry about Crabbe," I said eventually.

"Shut up," he muttered. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to mine. "Just shut the fuck up."

* * *

 **Author's note:** Hello lovely readers! Happy holidays! Thank you first and foremost to **partylines** and **LightofEvolution** for providing me with advice and letting me cryptically vent about this story. Also, thank you so much to those of you who took the time to let me know what you think. This story is definitely not a fluffy romance and probably not everyone's cup of tea. It's a difficult story to write, but it's practically clawing itself out of me.

Also, I know I'm late on the update again. I was sick with the flu and just didn't have the energy to write. I will try to stick to weekly updates, but sometimes it might get pushed to every 2 weeks.

Finally, I want to mention that the details are important to this story, and it does require you the reader to work a little harder to synthesize information. As always, I would love to know what you think!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	13. Chapter 13

I wonder if he thinks about Crabbe around the anniversary of his death. If he does, it doesn't show at work.

At Alfred's insistence, Malfoy and I have been meeting regularly to go over the framework for streamlined magical signature analysis. He comes to my office and we sit quietly across the room from each other clacking away at code.

The most emotion he shows is a furrow of his brow when deep in concentration. Sometimes, he crosses his legs. Sometimes, he runs his fingers over the scar on the back of his neck.

It's surprisingly easy to spend hours with him like this - eyes (mostly) on screen, fingers on keyboard, and the extent of our conversation exemplified as follows:

"I think I can manage to finish writing the database by tomorrow."

"Oh, good. I think I should be done conceptualizing the interface by then. By Wednesday, we'll be able to test some samples."

"Great."

Or this:

"I think I'll get some coffee."

"Ok."

* * *

Based on how he is around me (and how I am around him), it's hard to believe that once upon a time, I had two firsts with him: in our dreamt velvet bed, and then later, in that haven by the sea. And so many in-betweens.

I wish I could have kept those dreams, like recordings of my subconscious, unadulterated pensieves to wade through perversely, analytically, masochistically.

Sometimes, I fantasize that he saved the silvery threads of those memories and indulges in them the way I want to.

Then, it's the next morning, and he shows up at my office as scheduled. He takes his seat at the far monitors; the air between us contains only his politeness and my barely contained unease. I doubt his head is filled with sex like mine, or that his dreams echo the ones we used to share. I expect he's long written over the feel of me with dozens of women more elegant, more agreeable, more _deserving_.

It's lonely to be so wholly affected by this secret I've put aside for so long. There is no truth. I know that now. Only time-filtered recollections, aged and ambered like liquor, and strained through all the rationalizing synapses I've formed over the last twelve years.

I try not to romanticize it.

Our first first wasn't sweet. I don't want to confuse desperation with passion or compatibility.

When I craned my neck to meet his lips, my throat still ached from Crabbe Sr.'s vengeful attack. Malfoy tasted salty from dried tears and snot, and ever faintly of peppermint and chocolate. Had he eaten sweets between saving my life and coming into my dream? Evidently, the purgatory he lived in didn't stink like mine.

Wisps of smoke filled the room as the candle flames burnt to the ends of their wicks, and the barely there light withered to pitch black.

He murmured something against my neck that I couldn't quite make out. I didn't care to. It didn't matter. Nothing did, except his teeth tugging on my lips, and the sharp dig of his hips into my inner thighs, and the knowing - hoping - that this time, he wouldn't stop above my waist.

He didn't unwrap me like a present, or whatever quaint gesture I imagined as part of my first time. It was too dark to tell if my eyes were open or closed. I wondered if he even cared that this was me beneath him, or if I could have been any body. Pansy Parkinson, maybe, or some other pretty, bosomy Slytherin. As for me, I was acutely aware that this was Draco Malfoy, wrong for me obviously, but he was here, and I couldn't - didn't want to - stop the frenzied unbuttoning of buttons and shifting down of waistbands; the weighty press of his length against my pubis.

"Come _o_ n." My voice was sounded strange, like I was outside of myself. I found myself arching my pelvis against his, pulling against his shoulder blades so his bare chest slid closer to mine, and biting my lip until I tasted iron.

"Beg," he murmured against my ear. His hands were already between my legs, positioning his length to prod against my entrance.

" _Please_ ," I appeased.

And then he was pushing, thrusting, forcing in. I expected pain, but this was a dream and there was only pressure and the tingling of those special nerves firing for the first time. I won't ever forget what it was like to be stretched open like that around him, his feral half-moan half-sigh, the finding and kneading of his hands on my breasts, and the wash of pleasure that came with that magic amount of friction.

I heard myself cry out for him, distantly, as if it couldn't possibly be me feeling too much, and grinding my pelvis wantonly against his.

His mouth was hot on my cheek, then my neck, and I raked my nails against his back. In my breath was something lead-laden and soul-molding and more, please more.

* * *

In the dungeons, I felt bad, and in the dreams, I got to feel good.

* * *

Months later, when I finally let Ron take me to bed and sink into where he thought he was first, I arched my back and crooned all the right noises. I cried out his name and kissed his shoulder, and lay against his chest in the afterwards. I told myself that this would be the first that counted, the one with the right boy. When we finally rolled apart and he rose to use the toilet, I turned onto my side. I felt too much of something lead-laden - but this time, heart-constricting - and for a brief moment, I curled my knees into my chest and let small sobs rise up from my diaphragm.

I told myself that _this_ was happiness; the right version of things, with the right person.

* * *

There was no after that first night, only more. Mouths and hands and skin against flesh, my wet, velvety folds wanting, grinding, squeezing, coming. More. And more. Then more.

"They're waking me up. I've got to go."

He was still inside me, his arms cradling my face as I rode him lazily.

"Will you come back after?"

"Fuck yes."

* * *

It can't be possible, right? That the closest I've ever felt to someone - the most understood - was when my body lay chained in that horrid dungeon? I think about all the proper relationships I've been in since and tell myself that those were the real thing. Maybe Ron is the one that got away, or Anthony. Because it's certainly not _him_.

I refuse to be that broken.

* * *

 **Author's** **note** : Thank you lovelies for all the support you've given this story! Thank you also to my wonderful beta, PartyLines, for all your thoughtful advice!

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on how the story is progressing!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	14. Chapter 14

"You sure you'll be okay?" Moira cornered me yesterday in anticipation of our return to Emei.

"Yes, of course." I stretched my mouth into what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

"You and Malfoy -"

"It's _fine_ , honestly. He was a complete git in school, but we work well together here."

She looked dissatisfied, but thankfully didn't press further.

* * *

I don't want to be asked if I'm okay.

Whatever not okay I am is _mine_.

I've guarded it like cursed treasure - poison-rusted precious metals, jewels flawed by spilled blood, yards of pearls wrapped snug around my neck.

Why should Moira (or Luna or Ron or Ginny or Harry) get to have it, to take it, to pick apart and _judge_?

It was only whim, wasn't it?

Just whim.

The choices I've kept vaulted all these years didn't fit - doesn't fit - with the rest of me that picked up and kept going after I was free. They were born of desperation that now makes me sick, but still turns me on, and makes me wish -

But none of that matters presently.

* * *

This trip is about particle 6174 or p.6174, the current working name for the element Moira and I found in the mist.

My colleagues were in a jovial mood as we gathered around the portal in my office. It's not difficult to join them in their enthusiasm. The thrill of discovery is what unites us after all.

Even Malfoy, who always looks so polished and impassive had a bit of nervous energy to him.

Fortunately, Ariel's ridiculous idea for us to pose as the "von Straplings" (how does she come up with these schemes?) was scraped in favor of a much simpler cover story of acting as a muggle tour group. We've been divided into two sub-groups: Malfoy and I in one, the others into another. It makes sense as Moira, Cornelius, and Ariel are far more equipped in their expertise to isolate and analyze p.6174 across dimensions.

Meanwhile, the two of us will use the algorithms we've written up in the last week or so to both streamline their analysis, and to mine a wealth of information on Emei's magical flora and fauna. Intellectually speaking, it's an unprecedented expedition.

In this way, I'm glad Alfred insisted on our collaboration. I'm not about to let a few dreams from twelve years ago affect my present day ambitions.

The portal deposits us deep in the woods near the peak of Emei. Brisk mountain air scented by ancient trees bathes my skin and chills my airway. Immediately, I feel my magic rouse and sharpen.

I exhale and the darkness that I had retreated to since Moira and I left the mountain feels like mere myopia. All of it - those excruciating nightmares, the guilty yearning for things that never really happened, and the bone-deep tired of reliving shouldn't-haves - fades into the distance, properly restored to past tense.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

There's no room for any of that in this sacred place among the mist. Power courses through me, laced potently between my every molecule.

I glance around, and it's clear that the other members of the team are also feeling the mountain's effects. Cornelius is looking down at his hands in wonder and whimsical Ariel has her face to the sky, eyes closed, sucking the mist deep into her lungs.

My gaze reaches for Moira's but her eyes are trained on Malfoy. He's ghostly white and his eyes are crinkled like he's about to be ill. His hands are trembling at his sides, clenched in white-knuckled fists.

"You alright mate?" she asks.

"Yeah. Portkeys don't agree with me."

"Ah," she says.

I keep my face expressionless, but I can already feel my newfound peace curling away like ash.

Even though we politely ignore the past in our working relationship, even though we've lived so much life that's had nothing to do with one another since, I still _know_ him.

I know when he's lying.

I know he can tolerate portkeys just fine, and I've seen him look this way before - in the dungeons and then later, in our shared dreamscape.

He didn't want to discuss the why's even back then.

Despite his promise to return to my dreams after our first night as proper lovers, I spent the next several days and nights alone and listless in the dungeons. No one came to torture me. Snape didn't perform his regular legillimency visit. Even the guards who always stood outside my cell were absent.

I wondered if there was another being left in the manor save for the house elf, who remained dutifully mute as he conjured my meals and cast hygiene charms.

This turn of events had me wavering between alarm and hope. Perhaps there had been some new development in the war. Perhaps we had won. Perhaps all my captors were now dead.

But not him, I thought (reassured). He's nothing if not self-preserving.

Then, one morning, I opened my eyes from half-sleep and he was there, masked as usual, scarred neck bowed toward his chest, fists trembling at his side.

I scrambled up to a sitting position.

"Where have you been?"

I don't know why I expected him to respond. He never did - never so much as cocked his head at me - but his silence didn't stop my barrage of questions.

"Where have any of you been?

"Answer me! You've all been gone for days! What's happened out there?

"Are my friends alright?

"Are you alright?"

I could see his chest rise and fall in quickening breaths, but he didn't answer.

At least this he obeyed:

"You have to come back to me."

* * *

 **Author's note:** The slow burn is real, isn't it? But we're getting there! Thank you to everyone who's still patiently following, and for your thoughtful reviews! Thank you especially to my amazing beta, **PartyLines**!

As always, I'm eager to know what you think!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	15. Chapter 15

There's a dream, a recent one, that I haven't recounted. I'd forgotten about it till now, as it had slipped away the way normal dreams are meant to.

I was underwater, except I didn't know I was and when I inhaled, swaths of warm, soapy water bitter with flowers excoriated my lungs. I flailed and kicked and somehow managed to swim upwards. Through the surface, I could see a figure with platinum blonde hair peering down at me.

He continued to watch from the edge of the bath as I reached air, hacking and sputtering violently in a fight for oxygen.

He was the Malfoy of today - broader shoulders, squarer jaw, and none of that reverence and insecurity I once found so endearing. At work, he's always smart in his well-fitted dark suits. It's not unusual for us to dress according to our outside world identities; as far as the pubic knows, Malfoy is still the full-time CEO of Neo Industries. In the dream, his suit jacket was crumpled at his feet and his usual crisp white dress shirt was transparent with damp from steam.

When I neared the rim of the bath, he squatted down and summoned a towel.

"You've come back to me," I said rather clumsily between coughs.

At the time, it felt so real that after, when I woke panting in the middle of the night, I reached for my wand and cast spell after spell over my arms, then legs, then everywhere, looking for the hidden talisman. Malfoy was always quite sneaky and clever you see, and in that post-dream state when reality hadn't yet taken hold, I was certain he had entered my subconscious and enforced that old dreamscape.

I must have cast twenty incantations before I realized there was nothing there. It was 3 AM, and I was alone in my bed behaving like a mad woman.

I want to say I felt relief, but it was jarring to return to actuality, akin to discovering that a part of me I'd taken for granted had never in fact existed.

In real life, the Unspeakable him - my colleague who smiles without his eyes and who never sneaks glances at me when we're together - would be ill-inclined to give me, to force upon me, that shared world again.

He wouldn't care enough to be that cruel.

* * *

On the mountaintop, our little group split up as planned. Cornelius, Moira, and Ariel set out to collect mist and obtain concentrated samples of p.6174, while Malfoy and I checked into the muggle hotel closest to Emei's peak.

The suite was lovely and quiet, with cherry wood furniture and sizable windows looking out onto thickets of trees.

"I'll unpack, if you set up the wards," I said, shortly after the bellman left.

"Fine."

I turned away and busied myself with arranging, unshrinking, and connecting our processors and monitors. All the while, I avoided looking at him, so much so that I was surprised by the slam of the bathroom door and the sound of retching that came soon after.

Before I could knock and ask if he was alright, he flushed the loo and threw open the door. His gelled hair had fallen loose over his eyes, and sick still lingered at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn't meet my eyes, as if he didn't want me to know this version of him still existed.

"Sorry, I've got to get some air," he mumbled.

"Wait, Draco -"

But he had already apparated away.

The polite thing, I knew, would have been to give him space and patiently await his return. However, after only a click of hesitation, I cast a tracing spell and followed him.

He hadn't gone far, maybe several yards outside the hotel grounds. He was slumped against a willowy tree, his breath exaggerated into rasping gasps. He'd erected some camouflage wards to hide from muggles, but the magic was sloppy, uncharacteristic of the Malfoyesque precision I'd grown accustomed to.

"Draco?" I tried, gently.

He straightened slightly and held his hands up to warn me back. That's when I saw the crackle of magic dancing between his fingertips.

"Are you okay?"

"Go back inside," he said.

A breeze made its' way through the forest, swirling cold, dense mist around us.

"It's alright," I soothed. "It's meant to feel like this."

He shook his head, and the lines around his mouth deepened as his lips thinned.

"We all feel it you know, the effect of the mist."

"With all due respect, _Hermione_ ," he said in a way that sent a shiver (thrill?) down my spine, "Stop being a fucking swot and go back inside."

There it finally was - the something I both dreaded and wanted, a goddamn crack in all his goddamn pretending. And now I could - would have to - stop pretending too.

As if the mountain had heard him, the wind grew stronger, bringing even more mist our way. My magical core practically trilled in delight at the cool rush of power that rose within me. From what I could see of him, Malfoy looked like he might implode or faint.

Dew had accumulated rapidly on our skin and parkas. I stepped forward gingerly in order to see better through the ever thickening mist.

"It's alright," I said again.

"It fucking _isn't_."

His magic was barely contained now, emanating from him in white gold bolts of energy that danced and swirled with the magical fog. He looked at once ethereal and tortured.

Then, the most curious thing happened. By now, the mist was so dense that I couldn't see an inch in front of me; and in a blink, it was gone.

I could see Malfoy clearly again, and he was starring past me in horror. In the next instant, he grabbed my hand and pulled me behind him. If not for his grip, I might have fallen backwards in shock, for there was a second Malfoy standing before us.

Sort of.

He - it? - wasn't corporeal or even opaque, really. On first instinct, I guessed it - him? - was made of mist and magic, though I'm not certain that makes any sense. Unlike the warm, fleshly Malfoy who clutched my hand in his, this alternate Malfoy wore an impassive expression and its' mouth didn't move when words emanated from its' form.

"Welcome back to Emei, Draco Lucius Malfoy." It certainly sounded like him.

"What's it talking about?" I asked softly.

The translucent Malfoy turned its' eerie gaze at me. For a moment, I thought it was trying to form some sort of facial expression, but soon, I realized I wasn't looking at Malfoy any longer. The creature had altered itself into me.

"Welcome back to you as well, Hermione Jean Granger," it said in my voice.

"What are you?"

"I am what you seek."

"I- what? Particle 6147?"

"In a way, yes."

Malfoy was squeezing my hand now, tight enough to hurt. It occurred to me briefly, unhelpfully, that this was the first time I'd touched him in twelve years.

"What do you want?" he gritted out.

"Ha," it said, shifting back into Malfoy's form. "We do not want in the manner of mortals."

"Why -"

"Let us help you form the question you want to ask."

"Alright," Malfoy said. "Go on then."

"Not now, Draco Lucius Malfoy. You are not ready."

"Not ready?" he sneered.

"You must relax. When you are ready, we will find you again."

"Please," I spoke up. "Don't leave just yet."

But it was already more fog than person, and with another tickle of breeze, it was gone altogether.

* * *

Now, back in our room, I itch to bombard him with questions, not unlike once upon a time in a long ago dream, when he came back to me like I asked.

He's taken over the setting up of equipment, as I sit on the bed and sullenly watch him work.

Color has returned to his face, but his expression remains grim.

"Draco-" I begin.

"Later," he snaps.

It takes me a second to process what he means.

"Alright," I say. Later is better than never, just as this newfound open hostility is better than our months of strained civility. I suppose we've both had enough of that.

I watch him some more, before I stand and summon my wand to work on the wards we've neglected to cast.

"We should tell the others," I say after some time.

He pauses mid-motion, but only for a second, and doesn't bother to look at me when he responds.

"Fine."

"I'll go find them if you'd like."

"Go ahead."

"I won't tell them, about you that is, if that's what you're worried about."

He finally sets down the tangle of cords he's been finagling with and fixes his glare on me.

"I'm not worried," he says, with palpable anger. "Tell them whatever the fuck you'd like."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** And the burn continues... The good news is my schedule has finally eased up somewhat and I will have time to write more regularly again. Thank you to **PartyLines** , my alpha, for giving me so much encouragement with this story. And thank you to all you lovely people who are still on this slow burn journey, especially those of you who take the time to share your thoughts! As always, I would love to know what you think!

Many xoxo's,

bourbonrain


	16. Chapter 16

After Malfoy's shift as my keeper, the tall broad guard took over. He didn't answer my frantic questions either.

That night, the dream began out in the quidditch field. I squinted upwards and found him speeding laps in the bright cloudless sky. He flew with a sort of frenzied energy; or maybe that was just my own uneasiness.

I presumed Malfoy and the others had disappeared off to some great incident that may have dictated the war's outcome. I wanted, needed, was _owed_ some explanation of the goings-on over the last several days.

Instead, there he was - _flying_.

I grew increasingly annoyed as he zipped about overhead. If he sensed I was fuming at him from below, he certainly didn't let it stop him.

By the time he finally slowed and began to descend, all my impatience and mounting rage had pushed a scolding diatribe to the tip of my tongue.

Then I saw him.

He landed some distance from me with practiced grace. I stood huffily and glared at him as he neared. He was sweaty and breathing hard, and the exertion of flight had whipped some color onto his cheeks. Still, even with the veneer of exercise, it was clear he'd been through _something_ since I last saw him. He was thinner, his lips cracked and dry, his skin more translucent somehow. His eyes were red and tired, spotted with burst blood vessels.

"Hey, Granger." He said my name so casually, like we were just passing each other in a hallway, like he didn't spend our entire adolescence making me feel lesser than.

"Hey," I answered with more calm than I felt. The rant that I'd been waiting to expel receded. I suppose I really did have a bleeding heart back then.

When I stepped forward and reached for his hand, he was trembling. He craned his head into the crook of my neck and sort of crumpled into my embrace. He was thin, so thin, and further cracked, and still so very beautiful.

"I can't do this anymore," he said. "I just don't... I fucking hate this."

"I know, I know," I said in my best soothing voice, even though a lump had risen in my throat. "It's alright."

But I didn't really know which _this_ he meant. And it wasn't alright, was it?

So many of those early kisses were salty with tears and snot and for me, edged with some extent of self-loathing. I didn't care though. It was anesthesia, the addictive kind that makes you a little euphoric too.

I let him pull the dream to our velvet canopied bed, and lay me flat over the rich texture of the covers. The room was better lit this time with dozens of floating candles.

We undressed each other between kisses. I want to say he was just a body, just easy gratification, or that I only slept with him as part of some grand escape plan, but I suppose at this point, there's no denying that our experiences marked me in a way that still makes me feel too much.

I'll never forget peeling off his quidditch jersey, running my hands over his chest and finding the dozens of jagged ridges marring his skin. I sat back and gasped at the barrage of scars that riddled his body. I knew immediately that they were from Harry's foolishness, adolescent rage coupled with blind trust in notes jotted down in a used textbook.

"Draco-," I began, but stopped when my eyes rose to meet his. They'd become unreadable and I could feel him shutting down and pulling away.

I couldn't bear his impending coldness when he was my only reprieve from perpetual aloneness, so I swallowed my words for the second time.

"You're beautiful," I told him instead.

After a beat, he lunged forward and found my lips again. He was hungrier; biting, sucking, probing. I could acutely feel the friction of his scars against my skin. Through it all, he was murmuring against my mouth, then my breasts; twisting, sucking, palming my nipples into hard, sensitive nubs.

"You're perfect," I think he said.

We'd learned each other's bodies quickly, and he already felt familiar. It wasn't long before I was moaning nonsensically, cresting from his tongue and fingers on my sex. And then it was his cock, stretching me open, pushing pleasure that briefly allowed me to forget how dismal real life was.

Afterwards, we lay in a tangle of limbs and sheets, and there the silence stretched long and tense.

"Your friends are fine," he said eventually.

Relief swelled my heart. I felt all too grateful for those four words, though I managed to resist the urge to hug and kiss him. It felt wrong, even though he had been inside me just minutes earlier. After all, we were very much on opposite sides in a war.

_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._

"What's happening out there?" I pressed when he didn't say anything more.

He stiffened but didn't disengage. He didn't respond either.

That irksome impatience rose again. I sat up and tugged the sheet around my chest. I couldn't even look at him, because then I might let show my rage and loneliness and and scream and sob until he couldn't bear it.

I swallowed it all down, schooled my face to hide my rancid curiosity, and lay back against his chest as if I had simply been adjusting position. I could hear his heart - slow, steady thuds that contrasted with the rapid beat of my own.

We poked fun at him at school for being a poncy daddy's boy, but when no one (except Harry) was looking, he became a formidable wizard. He was clever in school, a star player on the Slytherin team, and as he liked to remind anyone who would listen, he was very, very rich. In any other life, he would have had a bright future ahead of him.

I suppose the same could be said for myself.

"What would you be," I said finally, "If we were never in this?"

"Just because we've fucked doesn't mean we're friends now, Granger." His words came out tired and lacked conviction, like he was insulting me out of habit.

"Doesn't it?"

He rolled his eyes, then closed them. I thought perhaps he fell asleep, but after sometime, he answered me properly.

"Quidditch, I guess. Or obtain mastery in potions."

"Hm," I said. "I suppose I could have guessed that."

"Know it all swot," he replied and it hit that same pang-y spot such comments usually did.

"What would you be?" he continued. "Merlin, you'd probably waste all that brain power on something ridiculous like house elf rights."

"There's nothing ridiculous about house elf rights."

He moved suddenly - flipped me onto my back and pressed his mouth over mine.

"Bloody swot," he murmured. "Stupid girl. You'd save all the fucking house elves and leave nothing for yourself."

His hand found its way into the messy wetness of my pussy. I spread my legs around him and ground down against the digits he was thrusting into me.

"Be nice," I told him, but it came out as half a whimper.

"Bloody idiot martyr." His voice was low and snarky, his breath hot against my ear.

I reached down and found him hard and weeping pre-cum. A wave of desire washed over me; in those moments, I so easily forgot - or set aside - how strange it was that this was him and me, and all the space between our worlds, our ugly teenage enmity which emblemized the war.

The prophecy was literal when it came to Harry and Tom Riddle, but it drew a line between the rest of us too. Dumbledore and Voldemort divided us up between them even though we were mere children. We ate up all the self-righteousness they fed us, and in turn fueled the war and made it our own.

"What a fucking waste."

"Shut up," I told him.

He ignored me. All the while, he mumbled against my skin as he squeezed my flesh, pushed my knees against my chest and sunk back inside me.

"Tell me you mean it," I thought I heard him say. Or maybe it was, "Tell me you want it."

"I do, I do," I promised.

* * *

I didn't need him to say it. I felt it in the way he clung to me, his mirroring of my own fervor and despair. The war was far from over.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : So I realize this is a painfully slow burn, so I am very sorry for this longer than usual delay in updating. The last three weeks have been rather stressful in real life with impending career transition and my partner having a scaryish health emergency. Thank goodness for my amazing alpha/beta, **PartyLines** , and all her positive encouragement. Also, thank all of you who took the time to let me know what you think! Your feedback means so much to me! As always, I look forward to your thoughts!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


	17. Chapter 17

It's warm in our much-transfigured hotel room. The partially set up servers and hum of magical energy are at odds with the chilly mountain air outside.

I think he expected me to storm away after his outburst. Fifteen years ago, I likely would have. Instead, I've perched on the edge of the work bench we transfigured from the hotel bed, and watch as he sulks in petulant silence.

It feels good to see him sick to his stomach, stewing in rage, and so obviously bothered by my presence. At last, the tables are turned. At last, I know he's haunted by our before too.

"And what exactly is it you think I want to tell them?" I snap.

He doesn't answer, doesn't look at me, doesn't pause his wand work.

"You think I would want to admit we -"

Even now, I don't know what it is I want to confront him with. Inevitably, a lump rises in my throat, and pesky tears warm my orbits.

"When were you here last?" I say instead.

At this, he drops his hand to his side, letting his mid-cast spell collapse clumsily. He frowns as he finally meets my eyes. There are glimmers of his father's face in the lines framing his mouth and indenting his brow, but I can also see the lonely gaze of the boy who sought refuge in me after a too long absence.

My stomach churns in anticipation of his response, because maybe I already know before he says, "We arrived ten days before the end of the war."

* * *

In the dream, we laid sweaty and sticky on the soiled sheets. His hand rested on my bare hip, warm and comforting and thrilling.

Abruptly, a crash of energy jolted my spine and seared through my every nerve. The force of it snapped my back into a taught, spastic arch, and shook my flesh and bone until all of it fractured and crumpled, and nothing was left of me but suffering and fear. I was no longer my parents' daughter or Harry and Ron's best friend; now sand in an hourglass begging for gravity.

Only after the curse faded to pins and needles did I realize I was still somehow whole, and clearly no longer in the gentle dreamscape. Indeed, I was not even in the dungeon for they'd brought me to the ballroom where I had killed Greyback. All around, Death Eaters in full regalia hooted, ooh'ed and ahh'ed in appreciation of my torture. Somewhere nearby, Bellatrix's cackle rang loud and hysterical.

One by one, Voldemort's followers stepped into the hollow of the crowd and pointed their wands at me. I served as some sort of anti-Purism target for their violent fanaticism. They were drunk on power and darkness. As each spell struck, I could feel their contempt, their dogged intent to destroy my kind, their glee in making me hurt. They truly believed I was why their family's riches had dwindled, why the magic in their bloodlines had withered.

Something had happened in the days the castle had emptied, for there was a new ferocity in their hatred, and an alarming rise in potency to their magic.

To this day, those hours of Cruciatus are what I flashback to, and have nightmares of, and scream into my bathwater to purge.

The house elf was there too, watching me with big, sad eyes. He was a clever little creature; he mended my broken skin and bones at Bellatrix's command, but he left my overwrought nerves alone which provided a protective numbing effect. I think it was the only way I survived without devolving into intractable madness.

* * *

That night, in our shared dream space, I snuck out of bed in Gryffindor tower, and made my way to the therapeutic waters of the Prefect's bath. After infusing the pool with hawthorn, rose, and jasmine, I swam until my fingers pruned. Here, there was no war, no Pureblood bigotry, no failed responsibilities.

I focused on elongating my strokes, and the feel of warm water against my aching muscles and oversensitive skin. The last time I swam like this was in the Mediterranean, while on vacation with my parents. It was about a month before Bill and Fleur's wedding. I had spent all summer researching methods to alter and guard memories - my grand plan to protect my mum and dad. I wasn't choosing magic over them - I was using magic to help them. Weren't they lucky to have such a bright and ambitious daughter? My cleverness could save my family and Harry and the Weasley's and Hogwarts and magic as we knew it.

What arrogance, what foolishness.

I tired and sat on a step in the shallow end of the pool. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was giving me privacy, or poking around elsewhere in my subconscious. I needed to find him to figure out what had so invigorated Voldemort's followers. Instead, I devolved into gasping, choking sobs. It was a poor time for such hysterics, but I couldn't help it. Even if my body didn't physically hurt in the dreams, there was still hurt inside - in my heart or psyche or whatever you call it.

Eventually, he did turn up. The water had chilled and I was shivering with my knees hugged to my chest. He stood at the edge of the pool. Based on his awkward stance, he clearly didn't know what to do with a crying, naked girl.

"Are you alright?" he asked after some time.

"It's cold," I said numbly.

He cast a warming spell, then did something I didn't expect. With all his clothes on, he stepped into the pool and sat beside me. He draped his outer robes around me, and I was grateful to not be completely bare.

"Don't you want to know if I was one of them?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head. Quite honestly, I'd been too preoccupied by pain during the fact, and too scared to know the truth after. Not one of those Death Eaters had any qualms or hesitation in their curses. I couldn't bear it if my only semi-ally, if my only maybe-friend in this manor was among those who so brutally and hatefully cursed me.

"No," I said firmly when he didn't elaborate one way or another.

He surprised me again when he said, "Come on Granger. Let's get out of here. Take me to somewhere better."

He looked at me with such yearning - not sexual desire per say, but want of escape.

I understood him perfectly. I wanted to go somewhere untainted by the complexities of the magical world and Harry Potter's destiny.

In a flash of instinct, we were together on a pebbled Mediterranean beach, half-submerged in its sun-soaked shallow shores.

It would occur to me later, when I was alone again in the mildewed dungeon, that this was my first time sharing the muggle world with him.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER

 **Author's note** : I'm back! Hopefully with updates every week or two in the next few months. Thank you for all your patience with me and with this story. As always, shout out to my amazing beta, PartyLines. I really value feedback, so if you have time to drop a review, I would love to know what you think!

xoxo,

bourbonrain


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